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IMG_6946 by Dinur Blum Via Flickr:
It was hot and humid, and I needed to sit for a moment, resting on the ground. I could feel the sweat that had built up in my cup now running down my balls and pooling in my taint. Wearing a cup is part of the game, but damn, it trapped the heat like a personal sauna for your junk. Still, every baseball player needs to wear a cup; you just have to accept the swampy, sweaty reality that comes with protecting the family jewels.
Jockstrap forgotten in porta potty at baseball diamond, and hung on fence. I sure hope the owner finds it or someone else gets some use out of it.
Jackson Drake, known as "Doctor Thirst," was the perfect himbo, a gorgeous, muscle-bound jock with a world-class bubble butt and brains to match. His nickname, printed in bold letters right across the ass of his trunks, was a nod to his constant stream of thirst trap selfies. Behind his back, his fellow wrestlers called him "Doctor Slut," because every match was the same: his trunks would get sucked up his ass, flashing the black straps of his jockstrap like a neon sign. It was an invitation, a silent plea to be bent over and pile-driven with a hard, punishing fuck right into his oblivious bubble butt. He was completely clueless, while the entire locker room and half the crowd just saw a dumb muscle slut begging for a hard fuckin'.
It was supposed to be an exhibition match, some light sparring to drum up fan ticket sales. I was shocked to learn the "light sparring" meant we'd be in just our jockstraps, no trunks, in a ring outdoors in the open. I made the best of it, bouncing around the ring in just my jockstrap as the fans cheered and cameras flashed, the pouch swinging with the weight of my cock and balls. In the press interview afterwards, when asked if the actual match would also be jockstrap-only, the promoter answered "absolutely" before I could speak. The day of the match, in a packed stadium and wearing only a jockstrap, I was knocked out in the first round. While unconscious, my opponent stripped me of my jockstrap and tossed it into the stands. My corner men rushed to pull me from the ring, and as I was only barely conscious with my arms draped over their shoulders, fans spanked my ass, grabbed at my cock and balls, and a few actually punched my nuts like a punching bag. Defenseless, my poor junk took a brutal beating.
San Antonio Plaza & BBB-97 by Cayden Cribbs
After college with no professional baseball offers, he tried out for Banana Ball, a league whose tryouts were as bizarre as the game itself. He was told to wear just his cleats, a jockstrap, and a cup. Nothing else. The tryout was just him and a coach with a camera on a tripod. Practically nude, he was filmed shagging flies, hitting, and catching, his ass on constant display. At the end, the coach asked what special skills he had besides baseball, explaining that players had to be "connected to the fans." Puzzled, the player pointed at his own cup, pridefully smiling and saying he had a big cock. The coach's expression immediately soured. "This team can only have one alpha," he growled, "and it's me." He opened his pants, whipped out his cock, and told the player to suck him off, swallow his load, and prove he wasn't the alpha. The player dropped to his knees, his first time giving a blowjob, gagging and struggling with the sheer amount of cock in his mouth. But he did it, swallowing every drop. He made the team. Now, his coach is the alpha, and he sucks his coach's cock after every game in the office. It's humiliating to meet his girlfriend afterwards, worried he might have dried cum in his beard and knowing for a fact that his breath smells of another man's load.
Wrestling - Exposed
Coach said we were just drilling grappling, no striking, so I figured I'd skip the cup-stuffed jockstrap, since a low blow wasn't on the schedule. I was just wearing plain underwear under my shorts. Wouldn't you know it, while not a low blow, my training partner took my back. As I stood up, his legs caught my shorts and underwear, yanking them down to my knees and exposing my cock and balls to the entire gym. A few guys snickered as I frantically tried to cover myself and break free. I now know why my coach told us on day one that men should always wear a jockstrap at the gym and a cup when sparring, always. I never skipped a jockstrap after that day of public exposure.
"Are you kidding me?" John's face said it all as he stood at the registration table in just his jockstrap, told he was a tad over the weight limit. The registrar suggested, deadpan, that maybe losing the jockstrap would get him down enough to compete. Already the only contestant in just his jockstrap, John mumbled "fuck-it," hooked his fingers into the waistband, and bent over, giving everyone a clear view of his hairy asshole as his bubble butt parted. He kicked the jockstrap off and shuffled over to the scales, his cock swinging freely. The registration desk guy picked up John's discarded jockstrap, sniffed the pouch, and then stuffed it into his pocket. John made weight, but when he looked for his jockstrap, all the other contestants just smiled or laughed and said they didn't see it. He returned to the registration desk to finish his check-in, his compliant weight certified. His cock was now right at face level with the registrar who had stolen his jockstrap. Life was good, the guy thought, looking at the cock and balls that had been so recently cradled in the jockstrap now warming his pocket.
Tyron johnson & Jalen Guyton
Tyron and Jalen's white jockstraps were always visible beneath their white football pants, their leg straps tightly framing each player's butt. Fans had a nickname for them, the "Strap-On Twins," but it escalated when they started receiving packages in the mail: used jockstraps, some with crusty, yellowed pouches and others still damp with fresh cum loads. In the locker room, surrounded by coaches and teammates, they'd open the packages to roars of laughter. The coaches got a real kick out of it, suggesting they wear the fan-supplied jockstraps for the next game. Both players, disgusted, immediately refused. What they didn't know was that some of their teammates, finding the situation hilarious, fished the most soiled fan straps out of the trash and replaced the duo's own jockstraps in their lockers. The next day, Tyron and Jalen unknowingly pulled on the stiff, stained, and crusty fan-supplied jockstraps, their asses now wrapped in the dried cum of some anonymous stranger, all while their teammates snickered, waiting to see if they'd notice.
Jalen Guyton
His thighs were so massive and his pants far too tight, leaving his poor nuts with nowhere to go. With every pitch, they were brutally pinched between his quads, causing him to clutch his balls in pain immediately after his delivery. The trainer ran out, offering to inspect his nuts, but he angrily waved her away. His coach stormed to the mound, his face a mask of disgust, and told him to wear a jockstrap and cup from now on to protect his balls. "Real men wear a cup in baseball, regardless of position," he barked, loud enough for the dugout to hear, making it clear that his current nut-crunching predicament was a rookie mistake.
Billy needed cash fast for a doctor visit and some more jock itch cream; some dumb bitch he'd fucked gave him an STD and his dick burned like hell. When he was asked to caddy for the rich fuck donors at the country club, it was a no-brainer. The real money, though, came from the way those bastards would slip him a crisp fifty to drop to his knees right in the club's restrooms and let them shove their dicks down the quarterback's throat. He'd look up with spit-slick lips stretched wide, drool dripping off his chin while some pent-up family man fucked his face, grunting about how the star athlete's mouth was even tighter than his wife's cunt. Billy would just take it, hollow his cheeks, and swallow every last drop of cum, because that doctor visit wasn't going to pay itself. Nothing made those men reach for their wallets faster than watching the local football hero choke on their cocks like a two-dollar whore.
It happened every time he wrestled, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the testosterone, the constant body contact with his opponent, the friction of his tight singlet, or just the sheer exertion of the match, but he always got a rock-hard boner. His singlet would tent out obscenely, no way to hide the rigid outline of his dick pointing straight out for all the fans to see. The crowd would murmur and point, cameras would flash, and his opponent would smirk, knowing he had a psychological advantage. He was a good wrestler, but he was forever known as the kid who popped a boner on the mat.
He'd won the match, his first in weeks, and tried to focus on that victory, only to be surprised afterwards by a fan asking if he did any modeling. The fan offered him $200 for a 30-minute shoot for his wrestling blog, right there in the gym, no need to change from his singlet. He jumped at the offer. What the fan saw clearly, and the wrestler didn't, was that the old, thin wrestling singlet was skin-tight, leaving nothing to the imagination. It clearly showed the outline of his junk, particularly his cock and balls, which the fan's camera captured in high definition. The blog went live and immediately went viral amongst fans and wrestlers from other schools. The next meet was a nightmare. Opponents called him a fag and cocksucker during matches, telling him how they were going to "pack his fudge" for him once the match was over. One opponent even asked if he needed a date and wondered if he'd "put out on the first date like the bitches at his school." He tried to ignore the slurs, but it was impossible for them not to take a toll on a wrestler's self-image when he heard them every single match. He was completely clueless...
The dude had a nice-sized cock, I could see it tenting his gray track pants, clearly having spent his entire spring break looking for pussy and finding nothing had him bricked up. I see these college men all the time, piling four guys into a single hotel room, getting nothing and with no privacy to beat off, returning home with a hard-on that won't quit and a bad case of blue balls. Unfortunately for this guy, it wasn't his cock I was interested in, but that tight little hole between his ass-cheeks. When I approached him as airport security and got him into a private room, telling him he'd miss his flight unless he was willing to put-out, he wasn't all that surprised. He probably figured something was up when I made him strip to his underwear. But when he asked if I had a condom for him to put on, I realized he'd read the situation wrong.
"You won't be fucking me, boy," I corrected him. "I'll be fucking you." That threw him for a loop. "But…but I'm straight," he eventually managed to spit out, as if that would make the slightest difference. Then I added, "You want to miss your flight, or maybe you want my fist searching your asshole for drugs instead?" I could see the boy's mind working, clearly taking a cock was surely easier than a fist. Then he asked me, "will it hurt?" I knew I had him. I was sure I was really going to enjoy bitching this stud out. And I did.
I bent him over the table, his tight track pants still around his ankles, and plunged my raw cock into his virgin hole with one brutal thrust. He screamed, his straight pride shattered as I mercilessly pounded his ass, my balls slapping against his taint. I made him beg for it, made him tell me how much he loved my cock in his straight ass before I finally unloaded deep inside him. When I was done, I pulled out, slapped his red, abused ass, and told him his flight was leaving in five minutes. He waddled out of the room, to my laughter knowing he would spend the next three hours of his flight with cum in his asshole and balls begging to get out.
It was his coach's grand fundraising idea: send a player to a different stadium section after each game, holding a sign that read "Stuff a Jock." The players, in full uniform, would walk the aisles, letting fans pull open the front of their pants to stuff dollars into their jockstraps. It was humiliating, letting the mostly male fans sneak a peek at their cocks before inserting a bill, but catcher Billy, with his bulging cup, was a fan favorite who usually collected the most cash. After this week's game, Billy was sent to the outfield section, which was packed with "tarps off" male fans, a rowdy new trend. These drunk men had their own interpretation of the slogan. They held Billy down over a seat, stripped his pants from the back, and ripped the ass out of his sliding shorts, exposing his asshole to the cheering crowd. One after another, they stuffed their fingers into Billy's asshole, stretching him painfully as they shoved dollar bills up his ass, taking "stuff a jock" to a whole new level. Billy waddled away from the section, bills visibly poking out from between his ass cheeks as he made his way back to the clubhouse with over $100 stuffed in the jock's asshole. A new stadium record.
IMG_8328 by Andy
Between pitches, he'd shamelessly reach down digging and scratching at his crotch, adjusting his cup out, up and side to side, like a dog with fleas. The announcers tried to be professional, but their stifled laughter was obvious. "It looks like Jenkins is having some, uh, equipment issues down there," one chuckled. The close-up on the jumbotron showed his face contorted in a mix of pain and relief as he finally found the right spot to scratch, completely oblivious to the fact that thousands of fans were now speculating on whether he had crabs, a nasty rash, or just a jockstrap that had been washed in itching powder.
As the catcher approached with an outstretched hand, offering a baseball to the eager fan in front of him, his bulging crotch now at face height and clearly packed with a substantial athletic cup, the fan seized this opportunity to push boundaries. Without hesitation or filter he looked up at catcher's groin and asked with brazen audacity "Hey can I get your cup instead?" Stunned by request, the catcher in an attempt at good-natured sportsmanship gave a casual fist bump and replied with what seemed like genuine nonchalance "Sure thing after the game it'll be good n ripe, all sweaty if you still want" The implication of his words was unmistakable, figuring the fan wouldn't want it, and yet the fan on other hand appeared elated at prospect of claiming this unusual souvenir.
