Copyright by Marathon Brad, 2026, permission given to Gay Demon to reprint this story. It may not be copied to another website without prior approval from the author.
Please feel free to share your comments, thoughts and/or ideas with me at [email protected]
Tony, the team captain, had warned me the rugby boys were physical, but he had not warned me about everything else.
I showed up to my first practice with no shirt, the way Mike had instructed. Fifteen Australian rugby players stopped what they were doing the moment I walked through the stadium’s gate. It was not my bare chest that did it. It was the shorts, tiny and neon lime green, barely two inches of inseam, split high on both sides, sitting low on my hips. My pubic hair was visible above the waistband, and my glutes were barely covered in the back.
The silence lasted about five seconds.
Then Nash whistled.
It was slow, and deliberate, cutting right through the warm afternoon air. He was standing at the center of the field, shirtless as well, a rugby ball tucked under one arm, his blue eyes moving over me from my shoulders down to my legs and back up again.
"Boys," he called out, not taking his eyes off me. "Look what Mike sent us."
Several of them continued to stare openly. One of the forwards, already crouched, leaned on his knees and shook his head, his eyes moving over my body with a grin.
"This is our new teammate?" he asked.
"Yes," Nash said, still watching me. "He sure is." His blue eyes were bright with recognition. "This is Mike's Office Boy."
Nash led the conversation. I did not know his name yet, but I knew his type immediately, the kind of athlete who is always one of the best on every team. He ran Sponsorship and Events for the Milk Me Company, which explained everything about him, his easy access, the rugby connections, the way I imagined he moved through a room like he already owned whatever was happening in it. He was built lean and powerful, a trained athlete.
He had a tan, not an Australian beach tan. A training tan, the kind that baked into the skin permanently and made every muscle look sharper in the light. His blond hair had grown a little long. His blue eyes held mine.
Nash drew attention without trying, but right now it was all on me.
Tony, our team’s captain, was standing near the sideline with a water bottle. He caught my eye and gave a small nod toward the field.
The grass felt warm under my feet as I walked out to meet the team. The afternoon sun hit my bare shoulders. Nash stayed exactly where he was, making me walk the full distance to him.
When I stopped in front of him, he looked me over one more time, then extended his hand.
"Nash," he said.
"Brad," I said.
He shook it firmly, then held it a moment longer than necessary. His eyes dropped briefly to the training shorts before coming back up.
"Did your wrestling coach, Franco, teach you to dress like that?" he asked.
"Mike did," I said.
He smirked. "Of course he did."
When practice began, Tony ran the drills. The team moved well together, physical, instinctive, like men who knew each other well. I worked hard to keep up, my wrestling reactions firing in ways that translated better than I expected, aware of how the neon lime green shorts looked in the afternoon sun.
When the whistle blew, bodies collided. Practice was just supposed to be practice, but from the first snap of the ball, it felt like an audition for something else entirely.
And the hands started early.
The first time did not feel accidental. It was a tackle where Nash hit me low, driving me into the grass, his chest against my back, his hands firm at my hips as we went down together. He held onto me a beat longer than the drill required, his weight fully over me, his breath warm at my ear. One hand stayed firm at my hip while the other moved slowly, his fingers tracing the cleft between my cheeks under the thin, sweat-damp fabric. The pressure was obviously intentional as he held me there.
"Good," he said quietly. "You do not panic when you get tackled."
He pushed off me and was back on his feet before I fully realized what had just happened.
The second incident was even more intentional.
A passing drill brought me alongside Stone, a solid forward. As I ran past him, he reached out and grabbed my ass through my very thin training shorts. He did not slow or change his expression.
“Strong glutes,” he said.
I stared, my mouth dry.
Nash had seen the whole thing. He grinned.
A moment later, Flynn fell into step beside me as we lined up for the next drill, his eyes moving over me, lingering as he licked his lips. His charm was already working on me. I could feel it.
“Stone is a man of few words,” Flynn said. “But he is never wrong.”
By the third drill, the whole team was into the constant, deliberate contact with me that had nothing to do with rugby. A hand at my waist here. Fingers brushing my arm there.
During a defensive set, someone came up behind me to adjust my stance, his chest pressing against my back, hands grabbing my hips. “Widen your base, mate,” he whispered, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of my tiny shorts, his fingers stroking slowly through the visible trail of dark hair leading down from my navel. He took his time shifting my feet slightly, his cock nudging against my ass before he finally stepped away.
"Feeling tight, Office Boy," he said with a wink.
The cat calls were constant and yelled across the field toward me like they were part of the drills.
"Keep your hips loose, Show Boy."
"I saw the stream last night. You looked great on camera."
"Mike knows how to hire the best college boys."
"Half of Sydney has already seen what those shorts are hiding, and the other half is about to."
“There’s our star.” “Best shorts on the field right now.” “Heard you put on a show last night.”
It was teasing, but there was intent behind it. They wanted me to know they had been watching, that nothing I had done since arriving in Sydney a few weeks ago had gone unnoticed.
I kept my head down and practiced hard. My wrestling conditioning was real. I was fitter than most of them, and my body control was sharp in ways that caught them off guard.
Tony blew the final whistle and the team gathered into a huddle. I was in the middle, surrounded by the smell of sweat and hot, tired athletic bodies. Nash stood directly in front of me, his chest nearly touching mine. Stone's presence was close behind me. Hands landed on my shoulders, my arms, my waist. Not grabbing, just resting. Claiming me.
Nash's eyes held mine. The playful grin was gone, replaced by focused, steady intent.
"Shower's going to be crowded," he said, his voice low enough that only our circle could hear. "But I think our new recruit deserves a proper initiation. Don't you lads agree?"
Flynn smiled from Nash's left. "Absolutely agree," he said. "Full initiation. Very thorough."
Nash leaned in, his lips close to my ear, his hand firm on my hip, dipping his fingertips below the back waistband of my shorts.
"What do you say, Champ?" he said quietly. "Practice is over. Time to cool down in the locker room?"
The shower spray hit me first, a thick cloud wrapping around us as Nash led us into the shower room. It was a large, open space with shower heads lining the walls, the floor slick. The team followed close behind, cutting off any route of escape.
Hands began removing my towel before I even reached the water. Nash turned to face me, his blue eyes dark and focused in the mist. As my towel was taken away, Stone’s hands were resting on my shoulders from behind. They kneaded into the muscle there, thumbs pressing into the tight knots from practice in a slow, possessive massage.
"Good work today," he whispered.
I stood there, naked, exposed to the hungry eyes of about a dozen men.
A low murmur moved through the room.
"Damn. Look at Brad’s body."
Nash did not look at my face. His stare dropped to my already hard, leaking cock. He reached out, not grabbing, just tracing my erection with the back of his knuckles, a slow stroke from base to tip. The touch felt so good. I shuddered.
“Nice,” he said.
Then his hand closed around my cock, firm, warm, a single squeeze that made my hips jerk.
That was the signal. The team’s circle tightened around me.
Hands were everywhere, on my chest, fingers brushing my nipples in light, teasing touches, on my back, palms sliding over water-slick skin, tracing muscle, on my thighs, gripping and spreading. I was surrounded, touched, explored. Their eyes gave it away.
One player crouched in front of me, his hands running slowly up my calves, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive spots behind my knees. He looked up at me, his eyes bright.
“Solid legs,” he said, before leaning in and pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to my inner thigh.
Behind me, Stone’s hands slid down my back, over my ass. He did not just touch, he grabbed, taking hold, squeezing, working over my glutes. His thumbs pressed into my cleft, parting me.
“Perfect body,” he breathed, his voice full of lust.
He leaned in, chest against my back, and I felt a slow kiss on my shoulder.
In front of me, Nash kept his hand on my cock, stroking in an easy rhythm. He watched my face as the others worked me over.
“Enjoying the interrogation, Show Boy?” he asked, his voice low, teasing.
I could only sigh, my head swimming.
Then Nash shifted. He released me and placed both hands on my shoulders, turning me. He pushed me back until the cool wall tile met my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat around me.
“Open your stance up for me,” he said.
I understood. My posture widened, my body loosening.
Nash knelt between my legs, joining his teammate, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me open. He looked up at my eyes, then leaned forward.
I gasped, my hands reaching back and flattening against the tile behind me for support.
Around me, the others worked over me, one man at my side, his mouth at my chest, another at my hip, hands and lips moving over my body in a slow rhythm. The shower water fell onto us.
The steam filled the air. The slick floor beneath me, the low grunts and moans of the men around me, it all blurred into one overwhelming moment.
Names were called, voices rough and close.
“Brad…”
“Take it, mate.”
“Shoot your load.”
Nash pulled back, his breathing heavier now.
"Be ready for more later, Show Boy," he said, his hand still jerking me.
Something shifted in my chest. I did not have a word for it.
"Every man in this room is going to have a turn with you," Nash said, his voice low and certain. "When I say so."
Behind me, someone laughed quietly. "He is going to be passed around this team like a trophy."
Nash did not correct him and grinned.
I stared straight ahead. I now knew my place on the team. I had known it from the moment the water hit the floor and Nash looked my way.
Around us, taps shut off one by one. Towels were pulled loose, slow, unhurried. No one rushed. No one needed to.
The room had changed. The air felt thicker now, charged, waiting. Nothing had been said outright. But every man in that shower room understood that something had shifted between Brad and this team, and it was not going back.
After we were all dressed, Tony gathered the team together before we left the locker room. Water bottles were passed around.
Fifteen athletic men who had spent the last two hours finding reasons to put their hands on me were clearly not finished thinking about it. They were appreciative. Hungry. Every one of them still watching me when they thought I would not notice.
Nash dropped down beside me on the back bench, close enough that our shoulders touched. He did not move away. Neither did I.
He took a long drink from his bottle and glanced sideways toward me.
"You play rugby better than I expected," he whispered.
"Wrestling," I said back.
"Yeah. I can feel that." He nodded. "Did Mike tell you much about tonight?"
"Forge," I said. "The apparel announcement."
Nash smirked. "That is one way to put it."
He reached into his bag and pulled out the small brown bottle. He held it loosely between two fingers, not offering it yet.
"Tonight is different from training," he said. "Tonight a whole club gets to look at you."
He let that sit for a second.
"You good with that?"
I looked up at Tony. He was still talking, but my mind had already moved to the white transparent Bar Ho shorts hanging in my locker. Mike had sent them over earlier. They were tailored identical to the neon lime green shorts I wore during practice, tiny, barely there.
"Yes," I said.
Nash uncapped the bottle and held it toward me. I leaned in, breathing deeply.
The rush moved through me, loosening the tension across my shoulders.
Nash watched my face.
"Good boy," he said.
I nodded.
I could already feel it.
Forge was hotter than last week, not just in temperature but in energy.
Tony had been waiting for this night. Since I told him I was joining the rugby team, he had been looking for the right moment to introduce me. Not at the office. Not in a gym. But here, in a dance club, where fit, athletic men could look at me without pretending not to.
The moment we stepped through the doors, the room's atmosphere shifted up a notch. Security recognized Tony immediately, but their eyes moved straight to me. Mike had chosen my outfit for the evening, the signature white Bar Ho shorts by Slutwear USA. The sides cut high to my hip bones, the waistband sitting so low across my hips that my pubic hair was on display above it.
Under the lights, my shorts were transparent. There was no lining, no softening, just my body and a thin sheet of white fabric that hid nothing. My bulge outlined clearly in the front. The back inseam was so short that most of my glutes were on display, framed and obvious with every step. Four years on the mat in college had built my legs muscular and strong, and the shorts made sure everyone in the room knew it.
The shorts. Flip-flops. Nothing else on me. My 155-pound wrestler's body had become Mike's to show off.
One of the security guards placed a firm hand between my shoulder blades, guiding me inside. His eyes dropped briefly to my shorts before lifting back to my face.
"Good to see you again, Champ," he said. "I can tell you are going to have another fun night here."
The other security man nodded toward the bar. "They have you on every screen already."
I looked up. Every monitor around the club showed the same image, my abs tight under bright lights, the Slutwear USA logo beside my face. Then the image shifted to live feed. The spotlight found me from above, and on the screens, my chest rose and fell, the thin transparent fabric glowing under the beam.
The rugby team was already at the bar. A few of them turned toward me. Conversations stopped. One man leaned back against the bar, studying the screens first, then lowering his stare to me.
A few shirts were already off. Sweat shone across their chests and abs.
My eyes found Nash immediately as he stood at the center of the team, shirtless, a drink in his hand, watching me cross the room. Beside him, Flynn leaned against the bar with a grin.
Slutwear USA banners stretched across the industrial brick walls, thick black cloth tied with brown rope. A large promotional image of me in the same white shorts filled one of the displays. Under the bright lights, my abs looked tight and defined, my shoulders squared. The shorts framed me in the photo the same way they did now.
The tabletop tents were on display around the club, and I saw the same image printed there too. My torso beside the Slutwear USA logo, my face above the brand name. It felt strange seeing myself so visible.
Finally, behind the bar, a custom neon Slutwear USA sign glowed bright. The curves of the tubing were clean and sharp, mounted into a black frame that made it look permanent, like the brand had always belonged there. The neon lighting reflected off the bottles and glass around the bar.
Hands found me as the team closed around and welcomed me. Someone squeezed my arm. Another hand groped my ass. Nash stepped forward and rested both hands at my hips, turning me slightly toward the room, toward the light. My shorts showed off my stiff, leaking cock.
"Look up there," he said, pointing toward the screens. "That’s you on display."
Flynn stepped forward beside Nash, his eyes moving over me from shoulders to shorts and back up. He shook his head, the smirk still on his face.
"You look even better in person, Office Boy," he said.
I looked at the image of myself on the monitors with the transparent Bar Ho shorts sitting low across my hips and felt the heat rise in my face.
Nash guided me closer to the bar and two of my teammates lifted me onto the bar top, elevated, exposed, the spotlight catching the thin fabric. Phones came up around the club. The screens flickered between the banner image and the live feed.
Flynn leaned close, his voice low and warm. "Half of Sydney has watched your stream this week," he said. "The other half are here right now for this big announcement."
Behind the bar, the two bartenders were glad to see me. Evan stopped mid-pour. Cal leaned forward beside him. Their eyes stayed on me, remembering. Last week still fresh in their minds.
Evan glanced up at the banner behind me and gave a smile. "Looks like you are surviving the boardroom," he called, nodding toward the image of my abs printed beside the Slutwear USA logo.
Cal licked his lips and let his eyes travel over me before handing me a drink. "Barely dressed for it, though."
Tony headed up toward the DJ booth and took the mic as the music dipped.
"Look at our Office Boy," he said, pointing straight at me. "He is athletic. He is strong. And somehow, he still walks around like he has no idea what he does to a room."
Tony raised his glass.
"And what makes tonight even better," he continued, "is that this American wrestling champion is joining our rugby squad. Us boys are about to get a serious addition."
The rugby players answered with loud approval. A few whistles cut through the crowd.
"This is Mike's perfect pickup from the States," Tony said. "Brad is the face of our new Slutwear USA apparel. He will model the line. Represent the brand. And he is about to be flown all over Australia wearing our gear at events just like this."
The room came alive again, louder this time, voices rising, glasses lifted high.
Tony kept going.
"He is going to make our investors proud. He will look damn good in every Slutwear piece we put on him. And honestly?" Tony laughed, gesturing toward the rugby team. "He is going to make a hell of a player too, showing up before and after matches in Slutwear.
"To Brad. Mike's Office Boy. To Slutwear USA."
The room echoed it back.
Marco, up in the DJ booth, dropped in a heavier remix. His voice slid over the music. "This one is for the Show Boy."
Hands came up to me and brushed my arms. Someone leaned close and said something low in my ear that made the group laugh. Another rested his chin briefly on my shoulder.
Nash remained next to me. He was beautifully built, clean and athletic, powerful legs, narrow waist, strong shoulders that moved easily. Balanced and confident, a man completely at home in the club.
"Welcome to the team," he said quietly. Then he reached into his pocket and held up the small brown bottle one more time. "Properly this time."
I leaned forward. He held me with one hand. I breathed in slowly and felt the rush through my chest.
Nash watched my face the whole time.
When I straightened, he looked at me with those gorgeous blue eyes.
"You ready?" he asked.
I nodded. I did not know why.
He smiled.
The music remained loud, the club full of hot, attractive rugby players, Slutwear banners, and monitors streaming me live.
Mike stood near the bar watching. It appeared to all be going exactly as he had planned.
Nash surprised me with a kiss as his hands slid up my sides, gripping my waist and pulling me against him. I hesitated for half a second, feeling the warmth of his skin, his sweat slick against mine, as his chest pinned mine.
He deepened our kiss, tilting his head toward me, taking control of the moment in front of everyone. One of his hands slid down into the waistband at the back of my shorts. The thin transparent fabric shifted under his grip as he traced the curve of my ass, not hiding what he was doing. The rugby team shouted approval, the fabric pulled tight by his hand up my cleft. When he finally broke the kiss, his breathing remained heavy, his blue eyes bright under the spotlight.
"Boys," he said, his voice loud enough to carry over the music, "I think Brad will fit in just fine."
The team answered with cheers.
Nash tightened his grip on my shorts, holding me in place. "He is ours now."
A few of the players clapped. Someone whistled sharply. Another player lifted his drink high.
"You ready for that?" he whispered to me.
Nash did not wait for me to answer.
Mike gave another signal, just two fingers raised toward Marco in the DJ booth, and the music shifted immediately.
The spotlight narrowed until the beam locked directly on me.
Nash reached out and took the small brown bottle from Flynn's hand without looking at it and held it up between us.
"One more," he said quietly.
I leaned forward and breathed in slowly. The rush moved through me fast, softening every edge, making the music and the spotlight feel like heat on my skin.
Nash capped the bottle and tucked it away, his hands gripping my hips.
"Good boy," he said.
The cameras continued to run. I could see the red lights blinking from three different angles, mounted high on the industrial walls. On the screens above the bar, my image was still being streamed, the thin transparent white Bar Ho shorts glowing under the spotlight, hiding nothing.
The club's crowd was watching. And somewhere beyond Forge, so was everyone else.
The rugby players' hands continued to settle at my shoulders, my back, my arms. Nash's chest pressed briefly against my back. Stone's hand moved across my glutes, firm and possessive.
"Look at our Slutwear Boy," someone said.
"Mike has great taste," another said.
Flynn leaned close and whispered into my ear. "Every man in this club has seen your stream," he said warmly. "And every one of them is very glad you showed up tonight."
Nash kept me against his chest, one arm wrapping across my stomach, his lips dropping to the side of my neck. On the screens above the bar, the cameras caught it all.
His hand slid slowly down from my stomach. His fingers found the waistband of the transparent shorts and traced along it with care, not pulling, just touching, reminding me how thin the fabric was and how little it concealed. He stayed there, appreciating exactly what I was wearing.
And I remained where he placed me. Breathing. Accepting it. Letting him show me off.
Nash reached up and tipped my chin with one finger, turning my face toward the nearest camera. The red light blinked steadily back at me.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "That is what it feels like to be a Star."
I could feel my heart pounding. The poppers, the drinks, the heat of his body, the weight of many pairs of eyes, the slow red blink of the cameras above us. All of it overwhelming. All of it too much.
“They know who you are now,” he said. “Every person watching that stream knows your face, your body, your brand. You are not just the Office Boy anymore.”
The music continued to play.
The cameras blinked steadily.
Nash kept his hand firm at my waist.
Mike stood watching at the edge of the room as he nodded his head.
Nash saw it immediately. His grip tightened.
"Let's go up to the VIP balcony," he whispered.
He guided me from the bar area as hands groped my arms, my back, and my waist as we moved through the crowd and climbed the stairs.
The air was full of sexual tension as we stepped into the VIP space. The entire club sprawled below, swirling lights and the massive monitors still flashing with my captured image from minutes before.
Nash guided me forward until I was standing at the glass railing, his body a furnace at my back. His hands firm on my hips, adjusting my stance with small, precise shifts. "Right here," he said, his lips brushing my ear. "Look at all those men who want you."
His hands moved again, one firm at my waist, the other at my side.
"Do not move."
I did not. I placed my hands on the cool railing, bending forward slightly.
Below us, a few heads turned. Then more. A finger pointed upward.
"Look up. There is Brad!"
The shouts rose through the loud music. Nash's hand left my hip for a second, gesturing toward the DJ booth. A moment later, a bright, hot spotlight locked onto us, covering the VIP area in white. The monitors below changed, the angle now a perfect high-definition shot from across the club, framing me bent over the railing with Nash standing behind me.
A roar of approval rose from below.
Behind me, a few of the rugby players slipped in around us. Flynn leaned on the railing beside me, smirking. "Whole room's looking up, teammate. Every single one of them."
Another voice from behind me:
"Course they are. Look at Brad. He is nearly naked."
Nash's hands returned, one spreading possessively over my abs, pulling me back and flush against him. I could feel his cock, hard and thick, pressing through the thin barrier of the back of my shorts. "Let's give them a show," he whispered to me.
The noise below focused into a hungry buzz. Phones lifted, many tiny lights pointed up at us. Their attention pressed in from every side, blending with the rush of the green liquor shot and the dizzy haze of the poppers Cal had just given me. My skin felt hypersensitive, every breath from Nash against my neck registering.
"Inhale and hold those poppers," Nash instructed.
I did.
The whole room settled on one thing.
Me.
My knuckles grabbed the railing.
His hand left my face and slid down, over my chest, my stomach, until his fingers hooked into the waistband of the tiny white shorts. The transparent fabric clung to me now, soaked with sweat. He did not peel them down.
He ripped them off and tossed them to Flynn without looking
The sound was sharp, the tearing of the fabric, and then the heated air of the loft hit my bare ass. A massive, rolling cheer erupted from below, mixed with whistles and chants.
"There it is!" "Fuck yes!" "Look at that ass!" "Show us everything, Office Boy!"
I did not know what to do with that many eyes.
I was completely exposed, bent over the glass railing, ass in the air, on display for the entire club and the streaming cameras of the Milk Me channel. Heat surged through me.
They all see me.
They all had lust in their eyes.
Nash's hands were back on my hips, gripping, aligning. He spat into his palm once, a rough, wet sound, and then I felt the broad, blunt head of his cock firmly against me. Not teasing. Not asking. Taking.
"This is where it starts," he growled.
And he pushed in.
The stretch was immediate, breathtaking, a deep fullness. He was huge, and he did not stop, did not pause, just drove forward with a single hard thrust until he was fully enclosed, his hips flush against my ass.
A long moan tore from my throat, echoed by a collective shout from the few rugby players around us and a wave of noise from below.
"Take it!"
"Fuck him raw!"
"That's it, Nash!"
"Harder!" someone below shouted. "Give it to him!"
He held there, buried deep, letting me feel every inch, letting the crowd see it. The spotlight made our sweat shine. On the screens, I could see the perfect image of us joined, his muscular back flexing, my athletic wrestling body bent and taken.
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, the drag delicate, before slamming back in with a force that drove another moan from my lips.
He set a hard, driving rhythm from the first stroke. Deep, hard, piston-like drives that shoved me forward against the glass with every impact. Each thrust released a grunt from his chest, a moan from mine.
The pressure built, fed by the spectacle, by the poppers in my blood, by the dominance of his use of me.
Flynn leaned closer, his eyes glued to where Nash and I were connected.
"Look at our Show Boy taking it. He does not even know yet how good he is at this."
Nash's warm hand remained on the back of my neck, not squeezing, just resting, a feeling of approval. His other hand smoothed over my side, feeling the muscles jump and clench with every drive.
"All my power," he muttered, his voice thick. "Going right into you."
The perfect friction and sensations were overwhelming.
The cool glass against my waist.
The hands of my teammates on my shoulders, my back, my ass, claiming parts of my body that Nash was not currently occupying.
Nash's pace quickened, his breathing becoming heavy near my ear. His grip on my hips was tight, holding me in place for his use.
"You feel that?" he grunted, punctuating each word with a deep thrust.
"Every… single… one… of them… is watching you… get… fucked, our team's New Slut Boy."
I could only nod, my vision blurring at the edges.
My load building up inside me, an agonizing pressure seeking release.
My hard cock leaking onto the glass.
"He is close," Flynn observed, a laugh in his voice. "Look at him shake."
"Going to make him come just like this," Nash shouted, his rhythm becoming frantic, losing its precision for raw, driving need.
"Going to make you show them all. You ready? You ready to be a Porn Star?"
Flynn watched the change in my face. He continued to laugh, "There he goes. Look at him. Pure slut now."
His words were the final trigger.
The release happened.
Pleasure exploded through me, intense and immediate, impossible to hold back. I cried out as the roar of the club muffled the sound, my body trembling as I released against the glass.
Feeling me clamp down around him, Nash shouted. His thrusts became short, fierce jerks as he buried himself to the hilt and held, his body stiff against mine.
I felt the hot, sudden pulse of his release deep inside me, filling me.
He shuddered through it, his forehead dropping between my shoulder blades.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our breathing and the fading echo of the crowd's cheers.
Then Nash slowly pulled out, the feeling making me shudder again, his cum leaking from my hole. He stayed close behind me, one hand spread on my lower back, keeping me bent over, on display.
Flynn gave out a low whistle.
"Fuck. That was a show."
The cameras blinked steadily.
Mike stood near the bar below, arms folded, watching with a look of pride. Nash placed both hands firm at my hips, the spotlight stayed fixed, and the whole room pulsed with heat and noise and the knowledge that something had just been established that could not be taken back.
I was on every screen.
I was in every camera.
I was theirs, and the whole world watching the stream knew it, too.
Nash leaned close one final time, his lips warm at my ear.
"Act one," he whispered to me.
"Of something that does not end here."
And I stayed exactly where they put me, breathing, flushed, fully lit, completely seen, the Slutwear USA Boy, streaming live, belonging completely to the moment and everyone in it.
Mike smiled.
His Chosen Jock.
His Brand.
His.
Author is Brad
My email is [email protected] — I would love to hear your thoughts.
I love getting men excited—whether it is through my writing, watching me grind out reps in skin-tight gear at the gym, showing off online, or moving my body on a stage.
I will stay hard for you—in every way that matters.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
