The dorm hallway buzzed with fluorescent light and the faint smell of stale pizza as Jake leaned against the doorframe of dorm room 309. "Coach said your sprawl's still shit, Asher. You need extra reps. Plus you keep hesitating on the mat." His gaze drifted over Asher's compact frame—broad shoulders tapering to a wrestler's waist, dark stubble shadowing a stubborn jaw. Both freshmen knew the stakes: impress Coach Miller or ride the bench all season. Even worse, they could risk losing their scholarships.
Asher ran a hand through his coarse black curls, eyes narrowing at Jake's taller, leaner build—six-one to his five-nine—with corded muscle visible beneath thin cotton. "Dorm or the wrestling practice rooms?" he asked, voice low. Jake's pale skin flushed pink where his tank top exposed freckled shoulders, contrasting sharply with Asher's olive complexion.
Jake pushed off the doorframe, revealing the ginger hair dusting his forearms. "Practice room's empty till seven." Jake shifted his weight, his shoes squeaking against linoleum. "Look," he said, voice dropping, "Coach Miller's got his eye on replacements. That transfer from Iowa? Dude bench-presses linebackers."
Asher crossed his arms, thick biceps straining his t-shirt sleeves. The movement made the faint scent of his cedarwood deodorant cut through the hallway's pizza grease smell. "We've drilled takedowns for three hours straight," he countered, nodding toward the common room where laughter spilled out beneath pulsing bass. "We're freshmen. Shouldn't we... you know? Actually meet people?" His gaze lingered on a group passing by, easy camaraderie bright against the sterile hallway lights.
Jake's green eyes narrowed, catching Asher's unwillingness. "Thirty minutes," he pressed, softer now. "Just you, me, and that godawful throw rug they call a mat. Grab your gear, I'll see you there." He turned toward the stairwell, ginger hair catching the harsh light, and didn't look back—knowing Asher would follow. He was his best friend and would never let him down.
The practice room smelled of sweat-drenched vinyl and antiseptic. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as they peeled off shirts, revealing the stark contrast between Jake’s freckled, lean torso and Asher’s dense, coiled muscle. They slid into their navy singlets, the tight fabric constricting like second skin. For twenty minutes, they drilled sprawls—bodies slamming mat, breaths ragged, skin slick. Jake pinned Asher hard, forearm pressing into his throat. "See?" Jake panted, hips grinding down. "You have that habit of hesitating that gives me the opening to pin you." Asher’s pulse thudded against Jake’s wrist, the heat between them thick and unnerving.
"You know what bro, we’re wearing too much gear," Jake rasped suddenly, peeling off his own singlet with a sharp tug. He stood bare-chested, ginger hair glinting damply. "Your turn." Jake tossed the uniform aside, leaving him in just a classic white jockstrap—the pale freckled skin of his thighs light against the white fabric. Asher froze, gaze darting from Jake’s exposed chest, lean, ripped abs, and his nearly naked legs. The air crackled, charged with something beyond wrestling drills. Jake’s grin was sharp. "What? Scared you can't handle it old-school?"
Jake’s jockstrap clung like a second skin, stark white against his freckled hips. The thin cotton strained over the curve of his cock, outlining every inch—Asher swore he could even see the veins. Freckles dusted the tops of his thighs where the straps bit in, pale skin flushed pink from exertion. Lean muscle corded his abdomen, ribs visible as he panted. He looked vulnerable, exposed, yet fiercely focused—a warrior stripped to essentials.
Asher scrambled backwards, palms scraping on the vinyl. "What the fuck, Jake? Are you insane?" His voice cracked, eyes wide as saucers as they flicked toward the heavy double doors. "This is a public practice room! Coach could walk in, or anyone! Put your uni back on *now*!" The fluorescent lights felt suddenly blinding, exposing everything—the sweat sheen on Jake’s freckled shoulders, the stark outline of his cock pushing against the white cotton jockstrap pouch, the way Jake’s hips were still angled forward.
Jake snorted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Relax, Ash. Doors are locked, nobody's coming. Coach Miller *told* me when he was scouting me that real wrestlers train bare-chested sometimes. Less grip, more instinct." He crouched low, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His green eyes locked onto Asher’s, intense and unblinking. "You think Olympic guys rely on singlet seams? Nah. They feel the *body*, the sweat, the shift of muscle." He slapped his own bare thigh—a sharp, wet sound echoing in the empty room.
Asher swallowed hard, gaze flicking down to Jake’s jockstrap again. The white cotton clung obscenely, outlining the curve Jake couldn’t hide. "That's... bullshit. I can see your entire dick bro." he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. The mat felt hotter beneath his palms. Jake’s logic wormed its way in—Coach *had* complained about Asher relying too much on uniform grips. Still, the intimacy of it clawed at him: Jake’s freckled skin gleaming, the raw vulnerability of near-nakedness.
"You trust me, right?" Jake’s voice dropped, low and steady. He didn’t move closer, just held Asher’s stare. "Best friends since sixth grade. Shared locker rooms, shared beds after tournaments. This is just sweat and skin, Ash. Nothing else." The words were a lifeline, familiar and grounding. Asher’s shoulders loosened fractionally. Jake was right—they’d seen each other in every state imaginable. It was fine, just practice.
Slowly, Asher peeled off his own singlet. The material hissed as it slid down his thighs. Cold air rushed over Asher’s exposed skin—a shock that tightened his nipples and raised goosebumps across his olive-toned torso. His broad shoulders tensed, the dense muscle of his chest contracting sharply. Below, his dark curls were plastered to sweat-slicked skin above the waistband of his own jockstrap. The chill traced the deep valleys between his abdominal ridges, the sharp angles of his hip bones, the thick cords of his thighs. He felt stripped. Vulnerable. Jake’s gaze didn’t waver—no smirk, no teasing—just focused assessment. "Better," Jake murmured. "Now you’re not hiding." He dropped into stance, palms open. "Again. Sprawl drill. And this time, *feel* me coming."
Asher’s jockstrap, pink in color and thicker, framed the heavy swell between his legs. Six inches soft and thick, it strained heavily against the fabric, a shadowed weight against his dense thigh muscles. Olive skin gleamed under the fluorescents, smooth and hairless except for a dark trail vanishing beneath the waistband. The straps carved into his hips, emphasizing the coiled power of his wrestler’s build—broad shoulders tapering to a thick waist, every muscle defined and ready. A drop of sweat traced the deep groove of his spine.
They collided. Skin slapped against skin—hot, slippery. Jake’s freckled chest pressed flush against Asher’s olive-toned muscle. Breath hitched as Asher sprawled backward, Jake’s hips driving down, the pouch of Jake’s jockstrap grinding against Asher’s thigh as he pinned him. Sweat made everything glide, unpredictable. No seams to grab, just the hard planes of Jake’s abdomen flexing against him, the coarse ginger hair below Jake’s navel scratching Asher’s skin. Every shift, every twitch, vibrated through them—raw and electric. Asher gasped, fingers digging into Jake’s back. Hesitation evaporated. Only instinct remained.
Jake’s body was a map of tension and power. Lean muscle corded his freckled shoulders and back, tapering to a narrow waist where his jockstrap dug in. Sweat traced the deep groove of his spine, catching the fluorescent light. Below the straining white fabric, the swell of his ass was taut and compact—a wrestler’s strength honed for leverage. His thighs flexed as he kept Asher pinned, the ginger hair on his legs matted with sweat. Every breath Jake took expanded his ribcage, the movement predatory and controlled.
Asher’s throat tightened. The cool vinyl beneath his cheek contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from Jake’s body. He could feel the hard ridge of Jake’s cock against his ass through the thin layers of their jockstraps—a relentless pressure that made his own traitorous body stir. "Get off dude, I yield," Asher gritted out, twisting uselessly beneath Jake’s weight. The scent of rubber and Jake’s sharp, salty sweat filled his nostrils.
"Yield?" Jake’s breath was hot against Asher’s ear, hips grinding down deliberately. "I pinned you cause of that hesitation again. You freeze at the weirdest times, Ash." His forearm slid across Asher’s throat, not choking but claiming. "Coach said you need to embrace the contact, not flinch from it. Feel every shift, every twitch." Jake’s knee nudged Asher’s thighs wider, exposing him further. "Stop fighting it. Let it in."
Asher’s pulse hammered against his ribs. His cock thickened inside his jockstrap, the thick outline pressing against the pink fabric. Shame warred with a jagged spike of arousal—Jake’s dominance, the raw intimacy of skin-on-skin, the way his freckled chest pinned Asher’s broader frame. He tried to buck, but Jake anticipated it, driving his hips harder, grinding his own hardening length against Asher’s ass. "See?" Jake’s voice was a low rasp. "You’re not hesitating now. Your body knows what it wants."
Fluorescent light glared off the sweat-slicked mat as Jake shifted, rolling Asher onto his back. He straddled him, thighs caging Asher’s hips, the white pouch of his jockstrap straining obscenely inches from Asher’s face. Freckled skin stretched taut over corded abs. "Look at me," Jake commanded, green eyes dark and unreadable. Asher’s gaze flicked upward, past the damp ginger trail below Jake’s navel, past the swollen outline beneath thin cotton—and locked onto that fierce, focused stare. The air crackled, thick with unsaid things. Jake leaned down, palms braced beside Asher’s head. "Now," he murmured, "let’s see if you can throw me off."
Asher exploded upward. Olive-toned muscle bunched, a surge of raw power. His hips bucked, thighs driving hard against Jake’s weight. Skin slapped skin—a wet, sharp echo. Jake grunted, gripping Asher’s shoulders, fingers digging into dense muscle. Their bodies slid, slick with sweat, frictionless and unpredictable. Asher twisted, driving a knee between Jake’s thighs, finding leverage. For a heartbeat, Jake’s balance wavered, his freckled chest heaving inches above Asher’s. The scent of exertion, rubber, and something sharp and uniquely Jake flooded Asher’s senses.
They rolled. A tangle of limbs and straining jockstraps, hips grinding, breath hot and ragged in each other’s ears. Vinyl scraped Asher’s shoulder blade. Jake’s knee jammed against his ribs. Asher hooked an arm, leveraging Jake’s momentum, and suddenly *he* was on top. His thick forearm pressed Jake’s throat, pinning him flat. Jake’s green eyes widened—surprise, then fierce approval. Sweat dripped from Asher’s chin onto Jake’s freckled chest. Below, Jake’s cock strained visibly against the white fabric, a hard, upward curve. Asher’s own thick length pulsed heavy against the pink pouch, trapped and aching against Jake’s hip. Neither moved. The hum of the lights was deafening.
Jake’s chest rose and fell beneath Asher’s forearm. A slow, deliberate smile spread across his face, sharp and triumphant. "There it is," he rasped, voice rough. "You got your rhythm back dude." His hips shifted subtly, pressing upward, unconsciously grinding the hard line of his cock against Asher’s weight. The contact sent a jolt through Asher’s core. Jake continued, not noticing. "Told you," he breathed. "Skin’s better."
Jake’s gaze dropped, lingering on the pink waistband stretched taut across Asher’s hips. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "By the way… pink?" His thumb scraped the elastic, snapping it against sweat-slick skin. "Real men wear black or white, Ash. Not… fucking ballet slipper." "Coach sees this? He’d bench you for aesthetic crimes alone." His grin was sharp, predatory—a challenge etched in the curl of his lip.
Asher shoved Jake’s shoulder, knuckles digging into freckled muscle. "Shut up," he growled, voice tight. "It was one of my only clean ones, okay?" Heat flooded his cheeks despite the cool air. He shifted his hips, trying to ease the thick weight trapped against Jake’s thigh. "And it’s burgundy, asshole. Not pink." The lie tasted sour. He’d grabbed it blindly from the drawer this morning, desperate to escape the dorm before his roommate woke. Now, under Jake’s scrutiny, the color felt absurd—a neon sign screaming *look at me*.
Jake arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Burgundy?" He traced the waistband again, fingers drifting dangerously low. "Looks like bubblegum. Or strawberry ice cream."
Asher’s forearm trembled against Jake’s throat. "Screw you," he hissed, but the protest lacked fire. Defiance flickered—brief, desperate. He jerked his hips sideways, breaking contact. The sudden friction ripped a gasp from both of them. Jake’s laugh died in his throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Beneath Asher, Jake’s lean frame tensed. The white cotton pouch of his jockstrap strained, fabric tightening obscenely as his cock swelled against the thin material. It became impossible to ignore—a hard ridge pressing against Asher’s thigh where he still straddled Jake’s hips.
Asher froze. The shift was undeniable against his own trapped weight. Heat bloomed low in his belly, a treacherous pulse that thickened his own cock within the pink fabric. It pressed heavy and insistent against Jake’s hip, the thick outline unmistakable beneath the stretched cotton. Asher scrambled backward, putting precious inches between them. Cold vinyl stung his palms. "We’re done," he panted, chest heaving. "This isn’t wrestling anymore."
Jake pushed himself up onto his elbows, breathing hard. His green eyes were wide, startled, but his voice stayed steady. "Chill, Ash," he rasped. "It’s just friction, adrenaline. Happens all the time in training." He gestured vaguely toward the empty mats. "Seriously, the Olympic guys? They even oil up before drills. Skin slides, bodies react. It’s biology, not… whatever you’re thinking." He offered a lopsided grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Be glad I didn’t bring the baby oil."
Asher stared, disbelief warring with the frantic thud of his own heart. Jake’s cock still tented the white jockstrap pouch obscenely. "Biology?" Asher choked out, scrambling further back until his shoulders hit the padded wall. "You were *grinding* on me!"
He met Asher’s panicked gaze squarely. "And yeah, sometimes… things get stirred up. It’s awkward, but it’s normal. Coach Miller told me stories about guys popping boners mid-match. You just reset and move on." He shrugged, the movement casual, but tension corded his shoulders. "It means nothing."
Jake stood, peeling his jockstrap down in one sharp motion. It pooled around his ankles, revealing flushed ginger curls and the heavy, veined weight of his cock hanging thick against muscled thighs. He kicked the fabric aside, naked except for sweat and defiance. "See?" His voice cut through the antiseptic air, sharp and unwavering. "It's totally normal, I'm already rocking a softie again." He planted his feet wide on the mat, displaying his flaccid cock resting against freckled skin, the head flushed pink, veins prominent even in its relaxed state. The fluorescent glare highlighted every damp curl, every tremor in his clenched thigh muscles. "No big deal. Just biology cooling down."
Asher’s breath hitched. His gaze snapped away, then dragged back, helplessly tracing the exposed lines—the lean hips, the defined V, the soft curve of the cock. His own trapped cock throbbed painfully within the pink fabric, a traitorous echo. He scrambled to his feet, turning his back, fists clenched at his sides. Vinyl squeaked under his soles. "Put it away, Jake. This isn't funny." The words came out choked, raw.
Asher flinched as Jake slammed against his chest—bare skin on skin, hot and sudden. The impact reverberated through his ribs. Before he could react, Jake hooked a leg behind his knee. Asher crashed backward onto the mat, the air punching from his lungs. Jake followed him down, hips grinding against Asher’s jockstrap-clad groin. The friction was electric. Rough. Jake pinned Asher’s wrists above his head, fingers digging into tendon and bone. "I win again. Get over yourself," Jake hissed, breath hot against Asher’s ear. His cock pressed hard against Asher’s hip, a branding iron through thin fabric. Asher arched, trapped, the cold vinyl beneath him forgotten beneath Jake’s consuming heat.
Every freckle stood out like copper dust across Jake’s shoulders and chest. Ginger hair dusted his lean pectorals, trailing down to a thicker thatch above his now fully erect cock—thick-veined and resting against two average-sized balls. Damp curls clung to his temples, sweat tracing the hard lines of his jaw. His thighs, corded with wrestler’s muscle, flexed as he shifted his weight. The scent of male sweat hung thick between them—sharp, salty, primal. Jake’s green eyes bored into Asher’s, unblinking. "You yield?" he demanded, voice low and rough. His hips rolled forward, deliberate. The hard length of him slid against Asher’s trapped cock, straining the pink fabric.
Asher bucked wildly, desperation lending him strength. Jake grunted, thighs clamping tighter around Asher’s hips. Their bodies slid, sweat-slick and desperate. Vinyl squeaked beneath them. Asher’s knee found purchase against Jake’s ribs—a sharp jab. Jake hissed, grip faltering for a fraction of a second. Asher wrenched one wrist free. His hand flew to Jake’s shoulder, fingers digging into freckled muscle. He shoved hard, twisting his hips sideways. Jake’s balance broke. They rolled, tangled limbs straining, breaths ragged gasps echoing off the high ceiling.
Asher landed on top, pinning Jake’s shoulders. His forearm pressed into Jake’s throat. Sweat dripped from Asher’s chin onto Jake’s bare chest. Below, Jake’s cock strained upward, flushed and leaking, coming to a rest nestled in Asher's ass crack Neither moved. The fluorescent hum filled the silence. Jake’s lips parted. "Woah, Ash," he rasped, eyes locked on Asher’s. "You pinned me."
Then Jake’s gaze snapped past Asher’s shoulder. A shadow shifted behind the frosted glass door. Footsteps echoed—sharp, deliberate—down the hallway. Reality slammed into Asher like icy water. He jerked backward, scrambling off Jake as if burned. His knees scraped raw against vinyl. The fluorescent buzz roared in his ears. The air tasted metallic. "Shit," Asher choked out, voice cracking. "Someone’s—" He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t look at Jake’s naked sprawl, the flushed evidence of their stupidity.
Asher lurched to his feet, legs trembling beneath the flimsy pink jockstrap. He grabbed his shorts, shoving legs into khaki. The zipper snagged. "Get dressed!" he hissed, not looking down. "Now." Keys jingled outside the door. Panic coiled tight in his gut. "Move, Jake!"
Jake scrambled backward on his elbows, bare ass squeaking on vinyl. He snatched his singlet, jamming legs into the fabric with frantic jerks. His left foot caught in the wrong hole, tangled hopelessly. "Fuck!" he gasped, hopping awkwardly, one pale freckled thigh exposed, the other trapped. The white jockstrap lay forgotten near the padded wall. The heavy door groaned open. Coach Miller stood silhouetted in the doorway, clipboard clutched like a weapon. "Kovac? Riley?" His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "What the hell’s going on in here?"
Coach Miller's six-foot frame filled the doorway, broad shoulders straining the seams of his navy blue polo shirt. Black athletic pants hung loose on powerful legs, ending in scuffed white trainers. A whistle hung against his chest, glinting dully under the fluorescents. His black hair, cropped military-short, emphasized the sharp angles of his jaw and the deep furrow between thick brows. Olive skin stretched tight over a blunt nose and high cheekbones flushed with confusion.
The coach stepped inside, boots thudding on the mat. His gaze locked onto Jake’s tangled singlet, the pale expanse of bare thigh, and the thick, flushed curve of Jake’s cock—still semi-hard and glistening against ginger curls—before flicking to Asher’s unzipped shorts, the pink waistband peeking above and the pouch fully visible. "We're practicing," Jake blurted, finally wrenching his leg free. He yanked the singlet up, fabric snapping over his freckled shoulders. "Drills. Like you said, Coach." Sweat trickled down Jake’s temple. Asher kept his eyes glued to the mat’s scuff marks, the elastic digging into his hipbone.
Miller’s jaw tightened. He nudged the white jockstrap with his toe. "Drills," he echoed, flat and dangerous. His eyes flicked between them—Jake’s flushed neck, Asher’s clenched fists, the humid air thick with exertion and something else. "In the nude?" Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Miller’s knuckles whitened on the clipboard. "My office. Two minutes." He turned sharply, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, echoing crack. The air tasted like rubber and dread.
Jake stared at the closed door, chest heaving. Slowly, he bent to retrieve his jockstrap. His fingers trembled. "Ash," he started, voice unsteady. Miller’s office meant suspension. Maybe expulsion. Asher didn’t look up. He was fumbling with his zipper, trying to hide evidence of all signs of pink. The fluorescent buzz was the only sound now, loud enough to drown out the frantic hammering of his own heart.
Asher’s legs felt hollow. He followed Jake through the sterile halls, his waistband burning against his skin like a brand. Miller’s office door stood ajar. Inside, the coach sat behind a steel desk, wrestling trophies gleaming on shelves like silent judges. "Sit," Miller commanded, not looking up from his clipboard. Jake slid into a chair. Asher perched on the edge of his, knuckles white on his knees. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of old leather and disinfectant.
Jake had managed to pull on his singlet, the fabric clung to his lean frame, damp patches darkening under his arms and across his chest. Sweat plastered ginger strands to his temples. His freckled shoulders were tense beneath the straps. Below the desk, his knees bounced—a nervous tremor. He looked coiled, ready to bolt.
Asher had only managed shorts—khaki fabric loose over his thighs. The waistband of his underwear dug into his hips, a garish pink stripe above the shorts’ hem. His olive skin prickled where sweat cooled against the bare muscle of his chest. He kept his gaze fixed on the trophy case, avoiding Miller’s eyes.
Miller finally lifted his head. His eyes, sharp as flint, scanned Jake’s hastily donned singlet, then Asher’s hunched shoulders. "Riley. Explain," he said, the word clipped. Jake cleared his throat. "We were drilling sprawls, Coach. Bare-chested, like you told me." Miller’s gaze dropped pointedly to Jake’s lap where the singlet bunched, clearly outlining the shape beneath. "And the jockstrap?" Jake flushed crimson. "It... came off during a roll." Miller’s pen tapped the clipboard. "A roll." His gaze shifted to Asher. His eyes flickered to Asher’s pink waistband, peeking out over his hastily pulled on shorts.
Miller sighed, a weary sound that filled the cramped office. He leaned back, the chair groaning. "Boys," he began, rubbing his temples. "I get it. You’re young, eager. Want to push boundaries, practice your own way." His gaze lingered pointedly on Asher’s pink waistband. "Jockstraps? Essential. Safety first. Protects the goods, keeps everything where it belongs during a scramble." He paused, his eyes sharpening. "But *pink*?" A faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "That color? It’ll bleed right through a white singlet under the lights. Makes you look like you're advertising something... unorthodox." He leaned forward slightly. "Stick to black or white. Standard issue. Looks professional. Doesn’t distract."
Silence descended again, heavier than before. Jake shifted uncomfortably, the vinyl chair squeaking. Miller tapped his pen once more.
He scribbled something. "Practice here. 8AM. Both of you." He tossed two keys onto the desk. They clinked, cold and final. "Practice room B. Mats are laid. Door locks, and best of all the building should be empty that early in the morning." His gaze pinned Asher, sharp and assessing. "Focus on fundamentals." Jake stood immediately, scooping the keys. "Understood, Coach." Asher followed numbly, the fluorescent hallway lights blurring into harsh streaks. Jake pocketed the keys, his knuckles brushing Asher’s hip as they walked. "8AM," he murmured. His thumb pressed hard against the elastic waistband peeking above Asher’s shorts. “Maybe not pink tomorrow dude.”
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