Bryant Hall
Bryant-Denny was quiet that Saturday. The Tide was in Athens, Georgia, but you wouldn’t have known it inside the DKE house. Every TV blared the CBS feed, the smell of beer and fried food clung to the walls, and the living room was a sea of crimson polos and Greek letters.
The first quarter was tense, everyone leaning forward, but then Bama found its rhythm in the second. Touchdowns stacked up like dominoes. By halftime, it was 24–14, and the house was feral. Carter climbed on the coffee table, shirt off, veins bulging in his neck as he bellowed, “You know what time it is!”
The opening chords of Dixieland Delight on a Bluetooth speaker lit the fuse.
“Spend my dollar…” the house sang, a sloppy choir of polos and backwards caps.
“ON BEER AND LIQUOR!” came the roar, pledges, and brothers together with our own DKE line.
“Parked on a holler, ’neath the mountain moonlight,”
“ROLL TIDE!” shook the windows.
Our arms locked, swaying in rhythm, voices gone raw.
“Hold her upright…”
“AGAINST THE WALL!”
“Make a little lovin’…”
“ALL NIGHT!”
“A little turtle dovin’ on the Mason-Dixon line,”
“FUCK AUBURN!”
The floor bounced under our stomps, the air hot with sweat and beer breath.
“Fits my life…”
“AND LSU!”
“Oh, so right…”
“AND TENNESSEE AND GEORGIA TOO!”
The final “ROLL TIDE!” ripped from our throats like a war cry, beer flying, the chandelier swaying dangerously overhead. The floor trembled under dozens of stomping boots and boat shoes, the air thick with sweat and camaraderie.
I shouted the words with them, my throat tight, smile frozen in place. On the surface, I was just another pledge howling tradition into the night. But underneath, every syllable felt jagged in my mouth, the chant like a mask I had to wear tighter than ever. My arm was locked with Elliot's; I could feel his shoulder tense against mine, his own chant muted, almost lost under the roar.
By the time the last echo faded, everyone was red-faced and half-drunk, pledges coughing from beer foam, brothers hugging like they’d just won the national championship.
The second half was tighter, Georgia clawing back. By the fourth quarter, no one was singing. Every snap was life or death, every incomplete pass a groan through the room. When the clock finally hit zero, 24–21, the house erupted again, brothers spilling onto the Strip like we were the ones who brought Athens to its knees.
I should’ve gone with them. Should’ve been drunk and loud, hugging strangers, singing “Dixieland Delight” again until my throat gave out.
Instead, I slipped back toward Riverside, the echoes fading behind me. My Samsung was waiting.
3810475pr: you want inside? Here.
A profile appeared, random numbers and letters: D4R1U5W45H, no name. The headline read: Bama dl4u.
The picture wasn’t subtle. Just a cock, thick and dark, at least eight inches, maybe more.
My stomach turned over.
who is he?
The reply came fast.
3810475pr: doesn’t matter.
come on. at least tell me.
3810475pr: nah. you want in, you figure it out.
The Samsung glowed in my hand like a lit fuse. Outside, campus still pulsed with leftover chants and echoes of the victory. And here was Miguel, dangling something bigger than a win over Georgia.
The real inner sanctum.
The profile was still sitting there the next morning, the nameless string of numbers Miguel had dropped into my Grindr inbox like a grenade.
No face, no torso. Just the words Bama dl4u and a single picture: dark hand gripping the base of a cock so thick it looked unreal, like something carved out of obsidian.
I stared at it all of Sunday when I was in my room, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Every time I typed something, I erased it, started again. Finally, I went with the safest play.
yo.
The dots didn’t appear right away. Hours passed. I checked after lunch, nothing. Finally, after the DKE Chapter meeting, the reply came.
D4R1U5W45H: this the twink miguel sent? Busy, big game this week.
My pulse jumped. Not rejection. Not yet.
I tried again. when you free?
A longer pause. Then: You really want this, don’t you?
I swallowed, fingers tight around the Samsung. yeah. I want in
Another gap. Then a reply that left my stomach twisting.
D4R1U5W45H: Thursday 11. Bryant Hall. Don’t be late or tell anyone.
That was it. No emoji, no softness. Just a command.
I sat back against my desk chair, the glow of the phone burning my eyes. My whole body was wired and restless. Miguel hadn’t just opened the door; he’d shoved me into the inner sanctum blind, and there was no turning back.
By Tuesday, Caroline was already on full throttle. My iPhone lit up between every class, her texts pinging like confetti.
Caroline: Okay but I’m serious, what’s the vibe Saturday? Boots or sneakers?
Caroline: I swear if your cousin wears that stupid Auburn cap again, I’ll take it off his head and burn it.
Caroline: Also…Bama quarter zip , khakis, right? Gonna look like the cutest booster husband 😘
I thumbed back a half-hearted sure, but she was undeterred.
Caroline: OMG perfect. We’ll match. It’ll be so cute for pictures. My last post got 1500 likes!
Pictures, Posts. That was what she cared about. What I was supposed to care about. The curated slideshow of khakis and boots and clear-plastic stadium bags.
But every time my iPhone buzzed with her texts, the Samsung was heavier in my pocket, dragging me down. I’d switch screens, thumb open the other thread. The one that mattered.
Bryant Hall. Thursday. 11.
No name. No face. Just the threat and the promise of what waited for me.
Caroline sent a mirror selfie in her new crimson crop top. What do you think?? Too much??
I stared at it, then thumbed out the only answer that wouldn’t get me caught. Looks great, babe.
Meanwhile, on the burner, I typed and erased three times before sending the only message that mattered. I’ll be there.
The performance was seamless. Boyfriend on one phone, worshiper on the other.
And the clock was already ticking toward Thursday night.
Two nights later, the walk to Bryant Hall felt like a march to the gallows. Each step took me further from the world of crimson polos and deeper into the athlete's domain. The energy here was different, not the frantic party of the Strip, but the low thrum of focused power. Music bumped from a few open windows; a couple of guys I recognized from the basketball team loomed near an entrance, laughing. It was just a normal Thursday night for them. For me, it was the edge of a cliff.
I was so deep inside my own head, a ghost moving through their world, that when a voice cut from a side path, it hit me like a gunshot.
“Wyatt?”
I flinched, shoving the phone into my pocket like it was a hot coal. Elliot stood there, a backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like he was coming from the library. His eyes, sharp and always a little too observant, flickered over me.
“Hey,” I said, my voice coming out too high. “Just… headed to see a guy from Econ. Study group.”
Elliot didn’t smile. The lie was obvious; it was 10:42 PM on a Thursday. His gaze dropped to the pocket where I’d just stuffed the phone. A beat of silence stretched, thin and dangerous.
“I thought you had an iPhone,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “I always see you on it. You’re constantly texting Caroline.”
The air vanished from my lungs. My mind went blank, a silent scream of static. He notices. He fucking notices everything.
I forced a laugh, the sound brittle and fake in the night air. “This? Nah, man, this is just a… a burner for a psychology class project. We’re supposed to track screen time or some shit. It’s stupid.”
It was the worst lie I’d ever told. It hung in the air between us, pathetic and transparent.
Elliot just looked at me, his expression unreadable. He knew. He might not have known what, but he knew the phone was a secret, and the lie was a flag. He gave a slow, single nod.
“Right. A burner,” he repeated, the words flat. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your… study group.”
He emphasized the last two words just enough to let me know he didn’t believe a word of it. He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned and continued toward his dorm in Lakeside, leaving me standing frozen on the path.
My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of panic. The firewall had just been breached. Not by a stranger on an app, but by someone in my own house. Someone who knew my name, my girlfriend, and now, my secret.
The Samsung in my pocket felt less like a key and more like a bomb.
I finally reached Bryant Hall, its historic, imposing facade looming over me. This was it. The athletic dorm. The inner sanctum. I stood there, paralyzed, for a full minute before I sent the message.
here
A long minute passed. Then, the main door buzzed loudly, making me jump. Some basketball players came out, and I stepped aside to let them by.
And I waited until I finally saw him. Black, long braided hair, and probably a Senior. I hadn’t memorized our roster yet, but my dad had them by name and number by the second game.
My breath caught. He was a stranger, and yet he was exactly who I expected. A massive defensive lineman, a solid wall of muscle packed into a grey Alabama Football t-shirt and sweatpants.His face was all hard lines and quiet command, yet he was the exact answer to the anonymous profile. This was the body that belonged to the picture of the most massive dick I had ever seen.
He didn't smile. Didn't say a word. He stopped, opened the door, looked me up and down with a flat, appraising stare, then jerked his head back toward the stairs he’d just come down.
The order was silent. Follow me.
I did, my heart in my throat, trailing him up the steps. The silence was heavier than any accusation. He led me down a hall on the second floor and stopped at a door, swiping a keycard. He pushed it open and stepped aside, finally looking at me, his expression still indecipherable.
I walked in, and the breath retreated from my lungs.
It wasn't a dorm room; it was a double suite. A small living area with a kitchenette, a massive flat-screen TV on the wall. And on the couch, another player, a white guy with a buzz cut and a thick neck, was slumped, a controller in his hands. The screen was paused on Madden 26.
He looked up as we entered, his eyes shifting from the black player to me. There was no surprise on his face. Just a slow, lazy once-over. He didn't say anything. He just went back to his game, unpausing it, the sounds of the virtual stadium filling the room.
This was it, the inner sanctum, and it seemed like I was just the entertainment between video games and bedtime.
The player who’d led me up finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. “In here.” He nodded toward one of the two bedrooms leading off the main space.
I followed him in, the door clicking shut behind us. The room was sparse: a bed with an Alabama duvet cover, and a desk, all efficiency. He turned to face me, his expression still not giving me anything to work with.
“Clothes off,” he said. It wasn’t a request. Then, after a beat, his eyes pinned me. “This is what you wanted, right?”
My chest tightened. I nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”
My hands fumbled as I complied, the act feeling more like an inspection than seduction. I pulled my shirt over my head, toes curling in the carpet. I was just stepping out of my jeans when I heard the electronic fanfare of a touchdown from the other room cut off abruptly.
The bedroom door opened. The other player, the one from the couch, stood in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, his eyes roaming over my half-naked body with a detached curiosity. He looked past me to the player I’d followed.
“This is Miguel’s boy, Darius?”
The name hit the quiet room like a pancake block.
Darius.
D4R1U5.
The random string of letters and numbers from the Grindr profile. It wasn’t random at all. It was his name. His first and last name, right there in gamer code, hiding in plain sight. The key to unlock the mystery had been in front of me the whole time, and I’d been too blind, too desperate to see it.
My eyes snapped to the player in front of me. Darius. He didn’t look at his roommate. He kept his dark, appraising eyes locked on me, a glint of something, amusement, contempt, finally crossing his features as he saw the realization dawn on my face.
“Yeah,” Darius said, his voice flat. “This is him.”
Darius’ eyes went hard again. They dropped pointedly to my waist, where my boxer briefs were still the last remaining barrier.
“Do you really need me to help?” he asked, the low rumble of his voice leaving no room for misunderstanding. “Clothes off.”
Heat flooded my face, a mix of shame and a strange, submissive thrill. With trembling fingers, I hooked my thumbs into the elastic waistband and pushed my briefs down my thighs, letting them fall to the floor. I stood there, completely exposed, boxer briefs off, the cool air raising the hairs on my skin.
Darius gave a single, slow nod of approval, though his expression didn’t soften. He turned to the desk, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a black box. He tossed it onto the center of the Alabama duvet cover.
My eyes dropped to it. Okamoto Mega Big Boy XXL condoms. The branding was unmistakable, a stark promise of what was to come.
Then, Darius began to undress. He pulled his grey t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and the air left my lungs for the second time that night. His body was a masterpiece of power: a broad, thick chest, shoulders that looked carved from stone, and the defined ridges of his abs. He was everything I had ever fantasized about, a living god standing feet away from me. I was so transfixed, so lost in the awe of his physique, that I barely registered the soft rustle of fabric from the doorway.
It was only when a pair of sweatpants landed on the floor beside Darius’s that my head snapped around.
The other player, the one from the couch, was undressing, too. He was already shirtless, revealing a torso that was paler but just as powerfully built, a testament to the weight room. He met my wide-eyed stare with a calm, almost bored expression as he kicked his clothes aside.
It wasn't just Darius.
The thought was like a derailing freight train. The condoms weren't just for one of them. They were for both.
I had been so focused on the one god, I hadn't seen the other one standing right beside him. And by the time I realized it, it was far too late. The door was shut, and I was in the room with both of them. I still wasn’t sure if it was sheer panic or desire that kept me there.
Darius took a step toward me, his shadow falling over me. "On the bed," he said, his tone leaving no room for question. It wasn't an invitation. It was the next step in the process.
The fantasy of an intimate connection was shattered, replaced by the cold, hard reality of being outnumbered. I was no longer a worshiper in the temple. I was the sacrifice.
I moved on trembling legs, the stiff comforter rough against my knees as I crawled onto the center of the bed. The box of condoms sat beside me like an accusation. I heard the desk drawer slide open again, followed by the slick, wet sound of a pump bottle. A moment of muttered exchange, and then the bottle landed on the mattress near my head.
Before I could process it, the white player moved to the bed. He knelt on the mattress in front of me, his body blocking my view of the room. And there, level with my face, was his cock: thick, cut, and intimidatingly large, a solid 7.5 inches that made my throat go dry.
My focus was so completely seized by the sight that I didn't hear Darius move. I only felt his presence a second before his hands clamped onto my hips from behind, his grip firm and unyielding. I was trapped between them, the fantasy of worship finally, terrifyingly real.
The white player moved closer to me, his cock thick and heavy at my face. He paused, looking down.
“You good, man? Still okay with this?”
My nod was too fast. “Yes.”
The white player didn't wait. He guided himself forward, the head of his cock pressing against my lips. The command was silent but absolute. My mouth fell open, and I took him in, the sheer size stretching my jaw. A low, approving grunt came from above me as I began to move, the act clumsy and unpracticed under his watchful eye.
Behind me, Darius’s hands left my hips. I heard the rustle of the condom box, the tear of foil. My world narrowed to the rhythm of my head and the weight of the body in my mouth. I was so focused on the task, on the physical strain and the taste of skin, that I almost missed the other sounds.
The snap of the latex. The squirt of more lube.
Then, Darius’s hands were back on me, rougher this time. He manhandled me with an athlete's effortless strength, aligning me over the ‘A’ on the center of the bedspread.
He leaned down, his voice low, steady. “Last chance, bro. You sure you can handle this?”
A choked sound tried to escape my throat, but it was muffled by the cock still lodged there. All I could do was nod my head up and down. The white player’s hands tangled in my hair, his thrusts becoming more deliberate.
I squeezed my eyes shut as Darius positioned himself behind me. There was a moment of pressure, a blinding, stretching burn that made me see stars, and then he was inside, a solid, unforgiving presence that snatched the rest of the air from my lungs. The "Mega Big Boy" condom was no joke.
I was pinned, completely filled, used from both ends. The grunts and shifting weight of the two massive athletes became the only sounds in the room, a brutal symphony of their pleasure. This was the inner sanctum, and there was no escape.
The white player’s rhythm became frantic, his grip in my hair tightening to the point of pain. A series of ragged groans rattled in his chest, and then he pushed deep, holding himself there as he climaxed. The hot, sudden spill hit the back of my throat, triggering a violent gag reflex I had to fight to suppress. I choked, tears springing to my eyes as I was forced to swallow, the bitter taste a final, degrading seal on the transaction.
Feeling me convulse, Darius let out a low, guttural sound from behind me. His own thrusts became harder, deeper, his fingers digging bruises into my hips as he chased his own finish. With a final, shuddering drive, he stilled, his full weight collapsing onto me for a breathless moment before he pushed himself off and away.
The sudden emptiness was as shocking as the penetration had been. The white player pulled out of my mouth with a soft, wet sound and stepped back from the bed without a word.
I lay there, facedown on the crimson duvet, spent and shaking. The room was silent except for our heavy breathing. I heard the rustle of clothes, the soft thud of the condom hitting a trash can. I didn't look. I couldn't.
After a minute, Darius’s voice cut through the silence, flat and devoid of any emotion. "Alright. We done."
The statement was flat, devoid of any emotion. The transaction was complete.
I pushed myself up on shaking arms, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache. The two players were already pulling on their sweatpants, not looking at me, not looking at each other. The encounter was over for them, a closed loop.
I scrambled off the bed, my legs weak, and gathered my clothes from the floor with fumbling, ashamed hands. I didn't dare look at them as I dressed, each article felt like a futile attempt to reassemble the person I was supposed to be.
Darius opened the bedroom door and nodded toward the main suite's exit. No words. No "goodbye."
I walked out, my steps unsteady, and didn't look back. The door clicked shut behind me, the sound as final as a coffin lid sealing. The hollow victory of the inner sanctum was complete.
I pushed out into the cool night air, expecting relief. Instead, a wave of dizziness and pain washed over me. The mile walk back to Riverside was an impossible distance. My legs trembled, threatening to buckle.
I couldn't make it.
Defeated, I limped to the concrete steps at the side of Bryant Hall and collapsed onto the cold, hard surface. The inner sanctum was behind me, and I couldn't even walk away from it.
With unsteady fingers, I pulled out my iPhone, the real one, the one that belonged to Wyatt Briggs. I opened the Uber app, the screen glowing brightly in the dark. I typed in my destination: The Riverside Community, 174 Hackberry Ln. A car was seven minutes away.
I sat there in the shadows, waiting for a stranger to drive me the mile home, the hollow victory of finally getting ‘inside’ curdling into ash in my mouth. When my iPhone buzzed, it was just Caroline sending me a goodnight pic in her Bama pajamas.
The Uber ride was a haze of silent, polite agony. "Here's good," I managed to croak as we approached Riverside, not wanting the driver to see me limp all the way to the entrance.
I waved a weak thanks and slid out. The fresh air did little to clear my head, but the short ride had returned some basic function to my legs. I wasn't steady, but I could move. And there was one thing I had to do before I could go inside.
Instead of turning toward my dorm, I limped past it, toward the dark path that led to the Tuscaloosa Riverwalk. The sounds of the Strip were distant now, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the faint, muddy smell of the water.
My body protested every step, a deep, throbbing ache, a constant reminder of what had happened in Bryant Hall. I followed the path until I reached the concrete pier attached to the Alabama Rowing Team's dock, benches empty, the lone street lamp only illuminating me.
The Black Warrior River flowed past, dark and silent.
I pulled the Samsung from my pocket. It felt hot, contaminated, a direct line to the hollowness still echoing inside me. I didn't look at it. I didn't hesitate.
I drew my arm back and hurled it, side-armed, out into the deepest part of the channel I could see.
It didn't shatter. It didn't vanish with a dramatic splash. It just landed in the black water with a short, dull, deeply unsatisfying thunk. A single ripple spread out, then vanished, as if the river had swallowed a secret it didn't even want.
They had asked me three times if I was sure. I said yes every time, and still I felt ruined.
The firewall was gone. Drowned.
I stood there for a minute, staring at the nothingness, feeling emptier than before. Then, I turned and began the slow, painful limp back to Riverside.
I didn't bother undressing. I pushed my door shut, staggered the few steps to my bed, and collapsed onto the mattress, still in my jeans and shoes. The room spun. The phantom sensations of the night, the grip on my hips, the pressure, the burn, played on a loop behind my eyes.
I had made it to the last level thinking I’d get that final achievement, but instead the temple had been inside me, and it had left me with nothing but the silence and the ache.
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