The frat house on Elm Street throbbed with energy as dusk settled over Westfield University, the sky fading to a deep indigo streaked with the last hints of sunset. Bass-heavy music rattled the walls, spilling out into the street and pulling in waves of students eager for the weekend’s chaos. Laughter mingled with the clink of bottles and the haze of spilled beer, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation and youthful abandon. It was the kind of night where inhibitions dissolved, but for the five campus kings—Jake, Ryan, Tyler, Alex, and Brad—the party was just another arena to showcase their dominance. They arrived together, striding through the crowded doorway like a pack of predators, their peak physiques turning heads and sparking envious glances from every corner.
Jake led the charge, his towering six-foot-three frame cutting through the throng with effortless authority. He had opted for a snug black T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and massive chest, the material stretching over the hard slabs of his pecs and the ridges of his abs. His jeans hugged his powerful thighs, the fabric taut around the substantial bulge at his crotch, a silent testament to the thick, veiny cock that lay coiled beneath. With his blond hair tousled and blue eyes scanning the room, he grabbed a red plastic cup from the keg, filling it with foamy beer. Sarah spotted him almost immediately, her brunette curls bouncing as she sidled up, pressing her curves against his arm. “Jake, you’re here early,” she said, her fingers tracing the swell of his bicep, lingering just a bit too long. He flashed that cocky grin, pulling her closer, his hand resting on the small of her back. “Couldn’t stay away from the action.” His voice was deep, resonant, and she felt the heat radiating from his body, the promise of what those muscles could do. Jake’s mind wandered briefly to the possibilities—pinning her against a wall, freeing that impressive length from his jeans, thrusting deep—but he shook it off, taking a long swig of his drink. Little did he know, the beer had been tampered with, a subtle spike slipping into the keg earlier by an unseen hand.
Ryan followed close behind, his lean swimmer’s build slicing through the crowd like he was gliding through water. His white polo shirt fitted perfectly, accentuating the wide V of his shoulders and the taper to his slim waist, with just enough buttons undone to tease a glimpse of his smooth, tanned chest. Chinos outlined his strong legs and the generous swell between them, where his long, girthy cock rested heavy and ready. Green eyes twinkling, he accepted a cup from a passing frat brother, clinking it against Jake’s. Lisa appeared then, her volleyball-honed figure swaying as she leaned in, her hand brushing his forearm. “Dance later?” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. Ryan nodded, his mischievous smile widening as he sipped his beer, feeling a faint warmth spread through him that he attributed to the alcohol. But it was more than that—the spike working its way into his system, a carefully dosed sedative designed to dull senses without immediate alarm. He imagined for a moment what the night could hold: her body against his, his hands exploring, that cock of his hardening to full, throbbing length—but the thought blurred slightly, the room tilting just a fraction.
Tyler bulldozed his way to the kitchen, his compact, muscular form a force of nature in the confined space. His grey tank top exposed the thick cords of his arms and the barrel swell of his chest, the fabric dampening already from the humid air, clinging to every defined inch. Shorts rode up his quads, hinting at the meaty package swinging low between them, his thick cock a weapon of raw power. He poured himself a drink from the same tainted keg, downing half in one go as Megan approached, her curvy frame pressing close. “Tyler, you look ready to wrestle the whole party,” she teased, her hand on his thigh, squeezing the hard muscle there. He laughed, a gravelly sound, flexing his bicep for her benefit. “Maybe just you.” The beer tasted off, a metallic tang he dismissed as cheap brew, but the spike was already at work, a subtle fog creeping into his mind. Visions of dominance flickered—wrestling her down, stripping away barriers, burying his girth deep—but they faded quicker than usual, his grip on the cup loosening imperceptibly.
Alex weaved through the dancers with his trademark agility, his lithe track-star body sleek and poised in a blue button-up that highlighted the lean definition of his arms and chest. Jeans fitted snugly over his arse and legs, the curve of his cock outlined subtly when he moved. He snatched a cup from the table, toasting with the group as Emily joined him, her fingers interlacing with his. “You’re fast on your feet,” she said, pulling him onto the dance floor. Alex grinned, hazel eyes locking on hers as he took a sip, the liquid cool but carrying that hidden edge. The spike hit him gently, a warmth blooming in his veins, making the lights seem brighter, the music louder. He pictured the chase ahead—her in his arms, clothes falling away, his stamina-driven thrusts building to ecstasy—but the image wavered, his steps faltering just a touch.
Brad brought up the rear, his six-foot-seven stature making him a beacon in the sea of bodies. His red hoodie strained across his expansive shoulders and chest, zipped low to reveal the ladder of his abs, while basketball shorts did little to conceal the massive bulge between his pillar-like thighs, his horse-like cock hanging heavy. He filled his cup to the brim, the foam spilling over his large hand as Katie approached, tiptoeing to whisper in his ear. “My favourite giant.” Brad chuckled, wrapping an arm around her, his presence overwhelming. He drank deeply, the spike infiltrating his system, a slow burn that he mistook for the buzz of the party. Thoughts of lifting her, impaling her on that veiny length, thrusting with commanding force—they stirred him, but the edges softened, the room spinning subtly.
The five reconvened in the living room, cups in hand, their laughter booming over the music. “To the kings,” Jake toasted, clinking plastics with a force that sloshed beer everywhere. They stood as a unit, muscles flexing unconsciously, bodies on display in the dim light—Jake’s broad chest heaving, Ryan’s abs peeking as he stretched, Tyler’s arms crossed to emphasise his bulk, Alex bouncing on his toes, Brad towering with effortless dominance. Girls orbited them, hands brushing arms, lips parting in invitation. Sarah ground against Jake’s thigh, feeling the stir of his bulge. Lisa’s fingers teased Ryan’s collar. Megan squeezed Tyler’s arse. Emily swayed with Alex. Katie pressed into Brad’s side.
But across the street, in the shadowed van, Dr. Harlan monitored the feeds from hidden cameras, his cold eyes noting the subtle signs: a yawn from Ryan, Tyler rubbing his temples, Alex blinking slowly. “The compound is taking effect,” he said to Victor, his assistant nodding. Screens displayed close-ups of their crotches, estimating sizes, projecting yields. “These specimens… their seed will be premium.” Harlan adjusted his notes, imagining them soon: naked, restrained, those impressive cocks hooked to humming machines, stroked and sucked relentlessly, loads extracted over and over until their straight resolves cracked.
As the night progressed, the spike deepened its hold. Jake felt a heaviness in his limbs, excusing himself for fresh air, Sarah trailing but he waved her off. He stepped outside, the cool night air hitting him, but his vision blurred. A figure approached—Victor, disguised as a fellow student. “Hey man, you okay? Need a ride?” Jake mumbled agreement, stumbling towards the van.
Ryan followed suit, the fog thickening, heading to the porch for a breather. Victor lured him with a similar ploy, the swimmer’s lean form slumping into the vehicle.
Tyler pushed through the back door, his powerful frame unsteady, the world tilting. “Lost?” Victor asked, guiding him away.
Alex, mid-dance, felt nausea rise, slipping out the side. The trap snapped shut.
Brad, last to succumb, towered but teetered, accepting the “help” offered.
One by one, they vanished into the van, bodies limp but hearts still pumping, cocks soft but potent. The party raged on, oblivious, as the vehicle pulled away, heading to the facility where the real night out would begin—not with conquests, but with captivity, stripping, and the endless hum of machines hungry for their essence.
The van’s interior was clinical, restraints clicking into place around their muscular forms. Harlan inspected them, hands gliding over unconscious chests, abs, down to crotches, squeezing gently. “Perfect yields await.” The engine purred, carrying the straight athletes towards their fate: bound, milked, broken.
