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Author of immersive, long-form gay (M/M) erotica, specializing in fetish and kink-centric storytelling. Check me out: https://www.patreon.com/BrokenBoundariesGayErotica

[brokenboundariesgayerotica]

I've launched 2 new stories on my site: "My Straight Hockey Bro Taught Me How to Suck Dick" & "Rich Kid Uses the Hot College Tutor".

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[brokenboundariesgayerotica]

Who'd you rather? Blond or Ginger?

[francisis]

Do this so they know you're mine,beta boy😏

[brokenboundariesgayerotica]

The male body is like a work of art...

[brokenboundariesgayerotica]

Chapter 5: Breathless

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

The walk to class helped. A little. The air outside was sharp with early fall, cool enough to cut through the sweat still clinging to the back of my neck. My thighs ached from drills, my shoulders burned from Casper’s corrections, and still, somehow, my dick hadn’t gone down for half the walk.

I blamed the tight underwear. The way they held everything firm, like they were working against me. But that wasn’t it. I knew what it was.

It was the way Casper had pressed in close, his voice low, his fingers warm at the base of my spine, just above the waistband of my shorts. It was the way his sweat had clung to his body, the smell of him so thick and real I could practically taste it when he leaned in. The worst part was how calm he’d been. He’d acted like it was nothing. Like I was just equipment. Something to position or adjust.

I shifted in my seat as the lecture dragged on, arms crossed tight, trying not to squirm. My pants didn’t help. They rubbed in all the wrong ways. Everything felt too tight, too present, ugh, too horny. The TA was talking about cell metabolism, something about energy transfer and heat regulation, and all I could think about was the heat in my pants: the way it rose  every time Casper touched me.

The classroom was full, but I barely noticed anyone else. My notebook stayed mostly blank. I kept catching myself staring into the middle distance, imagining things I shouldn’t. Casper in his sleeveless tee. Casper shirtless, stretching. Casper’s hand on my lower back. Casper's voice in my ear.

By the time class ended, I was a mess of nerves and frustration, barely able to stand without adjusting myself first. I headed back to the dorm, heart pounding like I’d just run a sprint.

Please don’t be there, I thought as I climbed the stairs.

But Mason was there.

Of course he was.

He was stretched across his bed, headphones in, one leg up, scrolling something on his phone with a lazy thumb. Shirtless again. His shorts rode low on his hips, waistband dipped just enough to show the start of that deep V-line. His skin still held the glow of a post-practice rinse, damp curls at his neck where he hadn’t dried off properly.

He looked up as I came in, tugging one side of his headphones off.

“Yo. You good?” he asked, voice easy. “You left in a rush after practice.”

I blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Just… class.”

Mason nodded like that explained everything, then kicked his heel against the edge of the bed. “You do anything fun?”

“Just my brain short-circuiting.” I dropped my bag by the desk, trying to keep my eyes from drifting. “Lecture was brutal.”

“Sounds about right,” he grinned. “You hungry? I was gonna hit the dining hall in a bit.”

“I might go later,” I mumbled, not sure I could handle company just yet.

He shrugged and slipped his headphones back on. “Suit yourself.”

I turned toward my side of the room, muscles still tight, skin buzzing. All I wanted was ten minutes. Just a moment alone. I could lock the door, put on music, get it out of my system. Just enough to take the edge off. Then maybe I’d feel normal again.

But with Mason there — shirtless, stretched out, body casual and loose — that wasn’t happening.

I sat on my bed, staring at the wall, willing my body to calm down. But Mason shifted on the other side of the room, and I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye, the way his abs flexed as he adjusted, the lazy curve of his arm as he reached for a water bottle.

Nope. No chance.

I flopped back onto the bed, arm over my face, and let out a long, quiet breath.

Tomorrow. I’d deal with it tomorrow.

If I could make it that long.

And off to dinner I trudged.

The gym was already warm when I stepped inside the next morning. Chalk hung thick in the air, and the mats had that faint give underfoot that told you they hadn’t been re-rolled yet. Mason was across the room laughing with another guy, doing some casual ring holds like it was a rest day. I didn’t join them.

Casper was by the vault. Sleeveless again. Blond hair damp at the temples. His arms looked more pumped than usual, like he’d already run through a full set of drills before any of us even got here. He didn’t look up when I dropped my bag, but he had that awareness about him, like he always knew where everyone was. Like he could sense me.

I went through some quick stretches, trying to keep my focus locked in. I hadn’t jacked off the night before. Stilllll hadn’t. I thought maybe sleep would take the edge off, or that a class and a cold morning walk would reset me. Nope. My body was still tight, stomach tense, cock twitchy in my shorts from a single glance at Casper’s back.

“Eli.” His voice came sudden, direct. He was standing closer than I’d realized. “We’re working ring supports today. You ready?”

I nodded and followed him to the setup. He moved like he always did: clean, deliberate. Casual, elegant, dreamy.

There I went again.

He adjusted the straps as I stepped into place.

“Up,” he said.

I pushed up into a shaky hold. My arms were already straining a little.

“Too much tension in your core,” he said behind me. “You’re locking up again. Breathe.”

I let out a breath, trying to soften. It helped. A little.

Then I felt his hand at my lower back. Firm, flat, confident. His body edged closer behind mine, enough that I could feel the warmth of him without turning my head. His palm shifted, fingers pressing at my hips, adjusting the angle. Then lower, just above my waistband.

“Here. Loosen this,” he said, voice close to my ear.

I tried. But then I felt it. The problem. My shorts were already tented, the pressure of him behind me, the weight of his hand, the closeness, it was too much.

I clenched my teeth, trying to will it away. But it was obvious.

Casper didn’t move.

His hand stilled.

Then he looked down at my groin.

“You’re gonna have trouble keeping tension in your core if you’re, uh… dealing with that much pressure elsewhere.”

My stomach dropped. My face flushed crimson. I lowered fast, dropping to the mat with too much force. My arms shook.

Casper stepped back, but only a little. “It’s normal,” he said, tone easy. “Happens to guys sometimes. Blood flow. Nerves. Gym shorts. Maybe you a little more than most.”

He met my eyes then. His weren’t mocking. Just sharp. Knowing. His smirk was faint, like he was letting me off the hook, barely.

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My throat had gone dry.

Casper gave a small shrug and turned back to the rings. “We’ll stretch it out. Come on.”

My legs didn’t want to move. Not because I was tired, but because I could still feel his hand where it had been. That exact heat. That precise weight.

And worse, the arousal wasn’t going away.

I made it through the rest of practice by sheer force of will. I kept my eyes forward, my face neutral, my thoughts buried. Even when Casper touched me again—lighter this time, more professional—I stayed quiet. He didn’t bring it up again. But I could feel it between us. A shift. A new weight in the air.

My body still hummed with tension as I made my way to the locker room. Most of the guys had cleared out already, heading to classes or lunch. Mason was chatting near the exit, damp curls pushed back, towel slung around his neck. He gave me a thumbs-up as he left.

I turned and went to change.

The locker room was quiet when I walked in. The fluorescent lights hummed above, casting everything in that flat, too-exposed kind of brightness. Most of the team had already cleared out. The air still held the scent of soap, sweat, and damp tile.

I turned toward the row with my locker, toweling off my hair and trying not to think. Not about the way Casper’s fingers had lingered. Not about how hard I’d gotten. Not about how he’d said it: calm, easy, like he’d seen it all before but maybe also liked seeing it on me.

I stepped into my row.

And froze.

Casper was there.

Just emerging from the showers, hair wet, a white towel wrapped low around his waist. Steam clung to his chest, beading along the lines of his torso. He wasn’t even trying to look good. He just did. Every part of him was lean and sharp, defined without effort. His abs flexed slightly as he adjusted the towel, hips shifting with the movement.

I looked. Longer than I should have.

He noticed.

His gaze met mine as he passed the corner of the bench, slow and even. There was no smirk this time, no teasing glint. Just a steady look. Like he was taking measure of something.

I looked away fast, heat rushing to my face, and turned to my locker, heart punching harder than it should.

When I glanced back, Casper was gone.

My stomach flipped. I hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t seen which direction he’d gone. Just gone.

I pulled on my shirt with trembling fingers, still half-wet, trying to calm myself. Maybe he went to grab something. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. But the silence made it worse. I couldn’t tell if I was being paranoid or if I’d just crossed some invisible line.

Then he reappeared.

Not where his locker was.

Casper stepped into the row again, this time holding the towel in one hand. He moved casually to the bench just a few feet from mine, dropped the towel over his shoulder, and began drying his hair.

Naked.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

His body was fully on display.

My body was in full heat.

His wet skin glimmered under the lights, cock relaxed but impressive between his thighs, water still trickling down the curve of his lower back. He didn’t look at me at first. Just focused on drying his hair, slow circles with the towel, muscles in his arms shifting with each pass.

Then, without changing his tone, he spoke.

“Your form was better today.”

I didn’t answer.

“Still need to loosen up,” he added, finally glancing my way. “Especially through the hips.”

My throat was too dry to speak. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, couldn’t do anything but absorb every exposed inch of him.

Casper didn’t flinch under my stare. He stood there like he didn’t care, or like he knew I couldn’t help it. Water tracked down the slope of his chest, cutting through the definition of his abs. One drop slid all the way to his thigh, trailing slow along the inside before falling to the tile.

Then his eyes met mine again.

“You good?” he asked, like it was just small talk. Like I wasn’t sitting there frozen, half-dressed, hard as hell, mouth slightly open.

I blinked too fast. “Yeah. Just—uh. Still catching my breath.”

Casper tilted his head a little, eyes scanning my face with that calm, unreadable focus he always had when correcting my form. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

“You sure?” he said. “You look kinda... keyed up.”

I gave a tight laugh, too sharp. “Long morning.”

“Right,” he said, voice quieter now. “Those rings’ll get you.”

He stepped a little closer. Just a foot, maybe less. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I could smell the mix of his body wash, still fresh from the shower. He was drying his hair slowly, muscles flexing with each pass of the towel, water catching in the ridges of his abs and running down his legs.

“You’ve got to pace yourself better,” he said. “That kind of tension’s not sustainable.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Casper's eyes dropped. Not obviously. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

He looked right at my crotch.

At the tightness in my shorts.

Then his mouth quirked. Just slightly. Not a smile, not quite. More like the corner of something unspoken curling up.

“Still carrying that tension from the rings, huh?”

The air between us pulled tight.

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned, towel slung over his shoulder, bare feet silent against the tile.

I watched him walk away.

His back flexed with each step, muscles shifting under damp skin. His ass was unreal—tight, high, perfect. The kind of body you usually only got glimpses of in locker room mirrors or late-night porn tabs. But this was real. Inches away. Moving slow, deliberate, like he knew I was looking and didn’t care.

My cock throbbed so hard I had to sit down again.

Every part of me was buzzing. Too hot. Too aware. My fingers clenched around the edge of the bench, but it didn’t help. The pressure just stayed there, tight and impossible to ignore.

I bent forward, elbows to knees, trying to breathe through it.

But all I could see was the shape of him, seared into the backs of my eyelids.

I didn’t remember much of the walk back.

Doors, stairs, hallways, all a blur. My shirt stuck to my back, and I couldn’t get the heat out of my face.

The room was empty. Finally, I thought, I had the room to myself.

I kicked off my shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the bulge in my shorts. Still hard. Still aching. Still completely out of control.

My chest felt tight.

I leaned back, legs spread, hand over my crotch just to ease the pressure. It didn’t help. Every time I blinked, I saw him again. Casper. Naked. Turning. That stupid line he threw over his shoulder.

Still carrying that tension.

Fuck.

I hesitated.

Just a second.

Then pulled my gym shorts down.

My dick sprang up, flushed and wet at the tip. My stomach tensed as I wrapped my hand around it. The first stroke was all I needed to know there was no way I could hold off any longer. I was too hard, too desperate, too wired.

I jerked off in silence, biting my lip, breathing hard through my nose. My legs shifted, hips flexing just a little. My thumb circled the head, spreading the pre. I thought about Casper’s voice. The way he looked at me. The way he didn’t look away.

Then—

The door opened.

“Yo—”

I yanked the blanket over my lap, heart slamming against my ribs.

Mason froze halfway through the door.

His brows went up. Not shocked. Just... surprised.

I scrambled to sit upright, my dick still leaking under the blanket, my hand half-trapped against my thigh.

Mason blinked once, then tossed his bag onto his bed without saying anything else.

He didn't leave.

He just flopped onto the bed on his back and started to take off his shirt…

This story is in its 31st chapter on my Patreon

[brokenboundariesgayerotica]

Chapter 4: Hardest Part of the Workout

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

After Mason’s comments, I couldn’t jerk off.

If I didn’t come to dinner right away, he’d know what I’d done and that’d be even more embarrassing than what had already happened, so I threaded myself together and headed to the dining hall.

Dinner was loud and I don’t remember what I ate. Something beige and grilled, probably. Something I picked at while pretending to listen, while trying not to stare.

Mason had waved me over the second I walked in. No hesitation. Just a lazy grin and a gesture to the open seat across from him, as if nothing about earlier had been strange.

Now he was at ease again, sprawled at the head of a long table of guys from the team, damp hair curling around his ears, exposed shoulders shining faintly under the cafeteria lights. He cracked a joke that made someone choke on their drink then reached across someone’s tray like it was his own. The boy wore confidence like it was stitched into his skin.

It was the kind of scene I’d seen from across the room a hundred times, and never felt invited to. Now that I was in it, everything felt louder, crazier, not me. My clothes clung to my back in a way that made me want to peel them off and run.

At one point, Mason caught my eye mid-chew and gave me a look, a smirk, almost. There was a familiarity to it that gave me some comfort.

I thought about returning it, but then he turned back to the conversation, and I was left sitting there with my tray and a chest full of static.

Soon dinner was over and I was back at the dorm, asleep.

When I woke up, it was still dark enough that I couldn’t see the ceiling. I lay there for a while, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant clank of pipes in the walls, waiting to feel like myself again.

Instead, all I could think about was Casper’s hand.

I thought about the way he’d grabbed me at the end of drills his grip firm, like a handshake. He’d held me like he needed to rearrange something. He’d said something about my stance, about loosening my hips, and then his hand had been between my legs, flat against the fabric of my singlet, right between my ass cheeks. It had only lingered there for a second, but it was a deliriously long second.

It had been clinical, probably. I’d seen him correct other guys before, but not like that. At least I didn’t think so. Not with that kind of contact?

At the time, I’d just moved along with it as though it hadn’t knocked the breath out of me.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it: how casually he’d touched me, how sure he’d been of my stillness. It was like he was testing me, to see if I’d flinch or not. Maybe that was just me getting in my head too though. Maybe I just wanted Casper to be testing me like that.

By the time the sun started pushing pale light through the blinds, I was wide awake, still achy from yesterday’s practice and just unsettled enough to want out of my own skin. I got dressed without showering, pulled on my favourite light teal singlet, and headed back toward the gym before most of campus had even stirred.

I didn’t really have a plan. I wasn’t scheduled for anything, no classes until the afternoon, and nobody had asked me to be anywhere, but I couldn’t sit in my room. Every time I tried, I ended up just pacing or lying back down and staring at the ceiling again, like that would do something.

My phone was full of notifications, but I didn’t feel like checking it. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, or scrolling, or pretending to be interested in whatever distraction might take the edge off. I just wanted to move.

The gym felt like the only place that made sense. At least there, I could tell myself I was being productive, that I was doing something useful. In the gym, soreness meant progress and sweat meant control. Right now, I needed to get some control back over everything I’d been thinking and feeling.

I kept my head down as I walked across campus. A couple guys I recognized passed me going the other direction, laughing about something that they clearly found hilarious. One of them bumped my shoulder by accident and gave me a quick nod but didn’t stop. I carried on walking too; I didn’t want company.

By the time I pushed open the side door to the training complex, the sun had just cleared the roofline of the science building. It sent scattered, ethereal light through the windows that made everything inside look prettier than it actually was. The mats hadn’t even been cleaned yet and the air still held the ghost of yesterday’s sweat.

I stepped onto the floor and found a corner. Unfurled out one of the thinner mats and grabbed a foam roller. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet, and for now that was enough.

A few other guys had started to trickle in while I worked the foam roller up the side of my thigh. Most of them were upper-year guys, part of the travel team, stretching out in clumps or fiddling with their earbuds like they were too tired to commit to a real warm-up yet.

I kept my head down, but my eyes wandered. One guy peeled off his hoodie and his shirt came with it, sticking for a second before it tugged free. His abs flexed just enough to show off, though I don’t think he was doing it on purpose. Another one was lying flat on his stomach, doing some kind of back extension stretch, and his shorts had ridden down just enough to make me stare longer than I should have.

I didn’t mean to look, it just happened.

Everywhere I turned, there were bodies: casual, careless, confident. It didn’t matter if they were sweaty or sleepy, limber or stiff, they all had an effect on me. None of them knew how good they had it or how easy they made it look.

Ugh.

I closed my eyes for a second and focused on the motion, trying to get into some kind of pattern. The roller pressed into my thigh, and I moved slowly over it, counting breaths, willing myself into focus. It was something to do. Something that felt regulated, even if my mind kept drifting, unbidden, in a state that was anything but controlled.

I hadn’t jerked off since before I got to campus. Practice, Mason’s constant, annoying presence, orientations and class schedules had made that impossible.

I rolled back down the length of my thigh, trying to refocus, when I heard the soft thud of a bag drop beside mine.

It was Casper; I didn’t have to look to know it was him.

There was a certain way Casper moved. Calm, steady, like he was never in a rush but always exactly where he needed to be. His shoes barely made a sound on the mat, and yet the moment he arrived, the air around me felt different. I was more focused, more rigid.

I opened my eyes and glanced over just as he crouched beside me.

“You’re back at it early,” he said, not smiling but not unfriendly either.

“Didn’t sleep great.”

“Yeah?” He nodded like that made sense. “Yesterday was a tough one.”

I gave a vague hum and shifted slightly on the roller, trying not to look directly at him.

Casper didn’t say anything else at first. He just watched me. Not in a weird way, not even in a way that felt intentional. It was more like he was taking inventory, like he was scanning the way I moved, the angles of my legs, how much tension I was holding.

He nodded toward my hips. “You’re bracing weird again.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re tightening through your left side. Probably overcompensating. It’s throwing your alignment off.”

That didn’t sound like a big deal, but something about the way he said it made it feel like one. Like I’d done something wrong without knowing, and he was already filing it away somewhere important.

He tapped my shin lightly. “Roll on your back.”

I hesitated.

“I’ll help with your hips.”

I rolled onto my back and tried to act like it was no big deal. I was just stretching. I wasn’t going to lose control this time.  

Casper knelt down beside me and took my leg behind the knee, lifting it toward my chest. His grip was steady. He didn’t ask if I was good with it, he just did it, like this was something we always did. It was as though his touch wasn’t going to drive me crazy again. As if he hadn’t slipped his hand between my crack the other day…

“Relax this part,” he said, tapping the inside of my thigh. “You’re still clenching.”

“I’m not,” I said, almost too fast.

He moved my leg out to the side a bit and held it there, one hand under my calf, the other bracing my knee.

The stretch kicked in right away. It wasn’t painful, but it was deep and cutting in a way that let me know how tight everything was. I tried to breathe through it, but it caught me off guard, and I let out this weird half-sigh without meaning to.

Casper didn’t comment, he just adjusted his hand and eased the angle a little. “You’ve got more range than you’re using,” he said, quiet. “You’re tighter than you think.”

I stared at the ceiling and nodded again, even though I wasn’t totally sure what he meant. My leg felt heavy in his hands, like it didn’t belong to me anymore. The rest of my body had gone still and I didn’t know where to look. Every part of me felt like it was too close to him.

He moved my leg again, slower this time, rotating it at the hip.

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t trust my voice.

Casper shifted positions silently. He let my leg rest for a second, then picked up the other one and bent it the same way, angling it outward.

“This side’s worse,” he said. “You’re rotating in.”

He adjusted my foot and pressed it lightly toward the floor. Then his hand slid in under my thigh again, higher this time. Way higher.

His palm landed just below my crotch. Not quite touching anything, but close enough that the heat of it made my skin tingle. His thumb rested right in the crease at the top of my thigh, and when he adjusted the angle again, it nudged closer. Not full-on contact, but the edge of his hand brushed the base of my dick through my shorts.

My stomach tightened at the contact.

At first, I told myself it was nothing. It was just part of the stretching, just his hand doing what it needed to do. But his hand lingered like it belonged there, not moving, like he was transmitting energy straight through his fingertips into my body.

And that was all it took.

The blood rushed down before I could even think. One second, I was fine, the next I was swelling against the fabric, hard and getting harder. My hips twitched without meaning to, and I forced them flat again like that would somehow undo it.

I didn’t move. My fingers dug into the mat. I stared straight up, not even blinking.

Casper kept his voice even. “Try to breathe through the tension. You’re fighting me.”

No shit.

Casper didn’t pull his hand away right away. He held the stretch for another breath, maybe two, then, finally, he let go of my leg and leaned back on his heels.

“You’re definitely looser now,” he said, thoughtfully.

I stayed frozen. My dick was still hard, pressed awkwardly against the tight fabric of my singlet, outlined in a way that made me want to sink through the floor. There was no hiding it. No adjusting. I couldn’t even shift without making it worse.

Casper glanced down at me — then lower.

He saw. I knew he saw. But he didn’t smirk or laugh or make it a big thing. Just gave a soft little breath, like a private joke he wasn’t going to share.

“Well,” he said, voice casual. “Looks like that helped.”

My face went hot. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

“Don’t worry about it,” he added, standing up and grabbing his towel. “Singlets are brutal. That shit happens.”

I swallowed hard, trying to will the blood back to literally any other part of my body.

“You’re good, though,” he said over his shoulder, already walking away. “Wasn’t about me or anything. Right?”

I didn’t answer. My brain had stopped working in sentences.

Casper turned back like nothing had happened.

“Let’s hit two more before I check on the others,” he said, already crouching beside me again. “Keep you balanced.”

Was he serious?

He didn’t wait for a response. Just took hold of my ankle and bent my leg in toward my chest again, this time angling it wider.

My dick was still hard.

Not semi, not twitching, fully, stupidly hard. And I was still in my singlet, lying there face up like an idiot, trying not to let anything twitch or shift or leak. Every brush of fabric made it worse.

Casper stayed focused on the stretch.

“Try to let your knee open. Don’t fight it.”

I nodded, jaw locked. My breath came in shallow pulls, more from nerves than strain.

He adjusted my leg again, then placed one hand just below my knee and used the other to brace the inside of my thigh, not near my crotch this time, but not far either.

His thumb moved in slow, careful circles over the muscle, loosening the tension. It wasn’t sexual, not really. But it didn’t have to be.

I could feel my pulse in my dick. Could feel every inch of where his hand was, and every inch of where I wanted it to be.

I bit the inside of my cheek and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

Casper switched legs. No comment. No pause. Just kept working me through the stretch like I wasn’t visibly pitching a tent six inches from his hand.

Was this normal for him?

Was I normal?

Casper let the second leg down gently and sat back on his heels.

“You’re good,” he said again, like nothing had changed. “Definitely more open now.”

He stood, wiped his hands on his towel, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he glanced down at me. He didn’t look long, just enough to let me know he saw everything.

“That was the hardest part of your workout, huh?”

Spoken like a joke.

Like he wasn’t even thinking about what it did to me.

Then he walked off.

No second glance. No smirk. Just that one line tossed over his shoulder like it meant nothing.

I lay there for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling too fast, my dick still aching like it hadn’t gotten the memo. The mat felt sticky under my back. My hands had gone cold.

I wanted to jerk off so badly it hurt.

But I didn’t.

I lay there for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling too fast, my dick still aching like it hadn’t gotten the memo. The mat felt like a stranger under my back. My hands had gone cold.

I wanted to jerk off so badly it hurt.

But I couldn’t.

Not since that night in Mason’s room. The way he smirked. The way he said, “Don’t let me stop you,” before walking out,  leaving the words hanging like some kind of joke.

I hadn’t touched myself since.

And now here I was, hard as hell in a singlet, sweating through my gear while Casper walked off like nothing happened.

What the hell was I supposed to do with this?

I changed fast after practice. Threw on joggers and a hoodie, shoved everything else into my bag, and got out of there like someone might stop me. I had never been happier to be out of my favourite singlet. No matter how cute I thought I looked in it.

I was still hard.

Not completely. But enough.

Every step to class had this faint, maddening pressure between my legs, like my body hadn’t figured out we’d moved on. I kept adjusting my waistband with one hand in my pocket, pretending I was checking my phone, pretending I wasn’t burning alive in my own sweat.

My brain wouldn't stop.

Casper, obviously, his hands on my thighs, his voice like it was no big deal, that line about the hardest part of my workout.

But it wasn’t just him.

There was the lean blond guy by the leg press, the one with a backwards cap and forearms like rope. The short, ripped one doing pull-ups who’d peeled off his shirt halfway through and had that trail of sweat running down his chest like it was charting a course towards my lips.

I couldn’t forget Mason either.

Everything was sex right now.

Or maybe just everything male.

It was like I’d flipped some switch and couldn’t find it again. Everyone looked like they could fuck me. Or had already fucked someone like me. Or had no idea how easy it would be.

And I was going to Intro to Psych with a semi.

Cool. Normal. Totally fine.

This story is in its 30th chapter on my Patreon

[brokenboundariesgayerotica]

Chapter 4: Footman

© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

Bryson stretched his leg out towards me as I approached him, pressing his long athletic foot out straight in my direction, toes tense with anticipation. His lightly tanned skin shone like molded bronze as the firelight played over his features.

I stepped nearer to him cautiously, like a puppy testing out a new toy, but my brief reverie was cut short by a quick, giggly command from Tyler that shot out from the dark behind me.

“Kneel already. And Crawl”

Naked, in front of all these clothed boys, with my cock in a cage that prevented it from fully hardening and prevented me from jerking off unless those same boys let me, I figured I had very little dignity left to lose so I obeyed Tyler’s command and dropped to my knees and began to crawl.

It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation. I’d been on my knees for these boys dozens, maybe even hundreds of times, but now there was something more authoritative to it. I wasn’t on my knees just because I wanted to, now I was on my knees because they’d told me to be. There was also the feeling of the rough grit under my hands and knees and the sense of exposure from doing all of this outdoors, something we’d never ventured into back in high school.

As I got closer to Bryson’s foot he started to wiggle his toes at me in what he must have believed was a gesture of invitation. Feet definitely weren’t my thing, and waggling his, long, slender digits in my face, though I appreciated the effort, wasn’t doing anything to make them more inviting. Nonetheless, I crawled closer, my face getting ever nearer to my target, a thin bead of sweat rolling down my forehead despite the relatively comfortable weather.

I made one final motion in Bryson’s direction and as soon as he saw that I was within striking distance, he planted both of his feet directly on my face, soles covering my eyes like a makeshift blindfold. I could hear the other boys laugh and the squeal of delight that Bryson emitted as soon as his feet made contact with my face.

“Yes, Bro!” Aiden cheered.

“Lick. Those. Feet.” Tyler chanted in echo.

Bryson didn’t waste any time, angling his right foot towards my mouth, toes first, he pried my mouth open bit by bit like he was jacking up a car to replace a tire, then slid as much of his foot into my mouth as he could. Blunt, messy, definitely no grace in the movement, but it got exactly the reaction he probably desired from the boys — whoops and snickers and even one “Damnnnn” from I don’t know who.

The taste of Bryson’s foot was unexpected. It tasted nothing like cock. It was a lot saltier, and the skin was a lot rougher and less forgiving. When a cock was in your mouth, there was always at least a little space left in the margins, some softness there that yielded to the confines of your limited space. Not so with a foot! It completely took over the space, forcing its way in, hard, unyielding, exploring my mouth like a jackhammer exploring concrete.

Between the forceful invasion of my skull, and the raw taste of Bryson’s foot, I’d barely had time to absorb the smell. It wasn’t like some legendary college foot stank, but there was definitely a pungent, bawdy scent to Bryson’s foot that both repelled me and drew me in. My cock, which up until now had sat silent in its cage, began to stir to life, betraying me in this moment of utter humiliation.

I tried not to focus on the growing feeling of lust surging in the cage, knowing that thinking about it would only make the hardon inevitable. I succeeded momentarily, sucking on Bryson’s toes happily to the praise of my audience, but Bryson got a rise out of me, and my cock, when he used his other foot to deliver a few light slaps to the side of my face. Although he seemed to be delivering punishment, he accompanied the light blows with the words, “Good boy,” and that was all it took. The two together had me rising like a rocket. I was on my way to another Tommy Tentpole.

From this? What was wrong with me?

I spent the next few minutes tasting every part of Bryson’s feet, the toes, the soles, the top, the bottom. He had me suck on each individual toe, one by one, lick the crevices between them, then go back in the reverse direction I’d just gone. All the while, the other dudes made comments of encouragement, not for me, but for Bryson or speculated about how good it’d feel when they got their turn to have a go at my mouth.

Indeed, it wasn’t long before the next guy, Aiden, demanded that he have his spin at foot service and Bryson sent me over Aiden’s way with a nudge of his foot to my side. My cock had risen to full mast by this point and as I turned sideways to crawl to my next meal, my arousal was finally exposed to the boys in the firelight.

Grant was the first to notice, and he didn’t let me off the hook for it.

“Looks like someone enjoyed licking your feet, Bryson,” he said.

Oh God, he noticed. Of course, he noticed.

Bryson’s interest piqued, “Is that so?” he responded. “We prolly shoulda had you doing more interesting stuff for us a long time ago then, huh?” he asked.

“Definitely looks that way.” Grant noted.

I tried to ignore their barbs as I descended on Aiden’s feet, less tanned than Bryson’s but just as big and intimidating. Aiden didn’t waste any time either. He grabbed me by the hair, bent his right leg at the knee and pulled my face into the sole of his foot. It was much sweatier than Bryson’s had been, and the scent was more intense as well. As I started to lick, without being told to, I took note of the flavour differences between his foot and Bryson’s as well. Where Bryson’s foot had been more salty and earthy, Aiden’s was more salty-sour, definitely more intense.

Was this what I had been reduced to now? Comparing the smell and taste of my friends’ feet?

Aiden was a lot more ‘encouraging’ about having his feet worshipped, participating in the process with his hands, directing the process like a boxing coach at the side of the ring:

“More tongue,” he’d say.

Or:

“That’s it, now lick up and down the soles, back and forth,” using his grip on the back of my scalp to show me exactly how he wanted it done.

Before long, and sooner than my cock wanted it to be, the service of Aiden’s feet was over, and I was ushered along to Connor’s left foot which he’d generously outstretched in my direction, ready for attention. Connor’s feet were slightly smaller than the two of the other men I’d serviced so far and they were dusted with a coating of light blonde hair in contrast to the other two who’d been entirely hairless, but Connor’s feet were by far the most masculine and muscular I’d seen so far. They radiated the same, “I’m the boss” energy that he had earlier that night at the dinner table, and despite myself, I was already hungry for a taste.

I didn’t like feet though. Feet grossed me out. Didn’t they? What. The. Fuck?

Connor was the gentlest of the boys so far. He let me worship his feet languidly, laying back, arms behind his head, doing nothing but smirk confidently as I smothered his feet with devotion and my spit. If it was possible, my cock seemed to get even harder from the way Connor sat back and enjoyed my service so calmly, almost without any acknowledgement except to move me from one foot to the other.

As I stared up at him, his brown eyes gave nothing away except that he was enjoying every moment of my reverence and much as I tried, I couldn’t keep his stare, his powerful gaze was just too much for me in that moment. Instead, I turned back to his beautiful feet and continued to tend to them adoringly with my mouth, hoping I might earn even a sliver of approval from this gorgeous, blonde man.

Had I just thought of his feet as.. beautiful? What was happening to me?

Grant was the next footman on my list and, as always, he was an eager beaver, clawing for my face with his feet as I crawled towards his rattan bucket chair. By now, the last of the sunlight had long since died out and all that remained was the light of the fire. In that light, Grant’s face looked particularly devilish — and handsome — his reddish-brown hair, thin lips and high cheekbones animated by the flickering fire light and his giddy smile.

Grant’s feet were the cleanest of the bunch so far. They definitely weren’t clean, there was the usual taste of salt and sweat and everything else, but there was also a sort of sweetness to them that I couldn’t quite explain. It also seemed like Grant took better care of his feet than the other boys did. Cream or pedicures or something, I didn’t know, but his feet were smooth and soft against my face and tongue.

My cock reached another level of hardness in its cage.

Those soft feet. So nice… Wait.. Who even are you, Tommy?

Tyler was the last to have a go at my mouth and he made sure to make a spectacle of it like always.

Standing up instead of sitting like all the rest of the boys, he had me kneel in an awkward position that took me a few commands to figure out. I eventually figured out what he wanted when he said, “Face down, ass up, like a porn video!”

At that point, I realized he wanted me with my head on the ground and my ass high up in the air. The erotic rush of servicing Grant’s feet began to subside and the humiliation from earlier in the night began to rise again as Tyler bent down to tilt my head sideways so my right cheek was pressed to the hard, concrete tiles of the patio.

Then, making sure everyone else was watching, Tyler used his left foot to hold my head down by placing it — not too gently — on the side of my cheek, and then offered the sole of his right foot to me to start licking.

In this position, I couldn’t really lick Tyler’s foot as effectively as I’d been able to with the other guys but even I knew this wasn’t about how well I got the job done. This was about putting on a show for the other dudes. Tyler wanted to demonstrate what he could do with me, show how much power he had over me and as I got going, even though I didn’t want it to be the case, my cock started to get hard again, like rock hard.

And Grant noticed.

Of course, Grant noticed.

“He’s loving that shit, Tyler!” he said.

“Of course he is,” Tyler responded. “He was probably hoping we’d do this stuff for years. Tommy is gonna have the best vacation of all of us, for sure, dudes!”

As he uttered the last words, he shifted feet, using his right now to pin my face down and giving me his left for licking. The other guys meanwhile offered only agreement to Tyler’s statement, which I wasn’t too sure about, but then again, I couldn’t deny that this shit was turning me on like crazy.

After a few more minutes of licking Tyler’s left foot, I felt the pressure on my face ease. I looked up to see Tyler standing there, looking down at me, a cocky smile fixed on his face. He stared at me like someone might stare at a mess they just made and were nonetheless really proud of, and maybe that’s exactly how I looked at the moment. I noticed something else then though, Tyler was groping himself gently through his pants and he was hard, or at least semi hard.

I couldn’t help but feel proud that I’d made that happen. That I’d done well with my ‘foot job’.

Tyler looked around the light of the fire pit, still feeling himself through the shorts, and spoke a few more words that would have me not just throbbing but leaking into my cage.

“So all that foot stuff has me hard, boys. Who else is in the mood for a blow job?”

As I righted myself and elevated myself to my knees, I didn’t need the boys to respond to know their answer.

Their eyes said it all.

Hungry.

Predatory.

All fixed on me.

--------

This story is in chapter 26 on my Patreon

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