He doesn’t even know it yet.
He’s sweaty, cocky, lounging like he owns the world, sucking down that beer.
But he’s already been bought.
The room smells of sweat, stale beer, and expensive cologne. The jock sprawls back against the storage wall of the club’s private lounge, legs splayed, still glistening from the match. His royal blue shorts ride high over thick, muscular thighs, his knee-high socks stretched tight, his cleats tapping lazily against the floor. He’s buzzed. Loose. His chest rises and falls with every deep breath, the sweat coating his pecs catching in the dim light. He smirks, lips curled over the rim of the beer bottle as he takes another slow swig. He thinks this is just another victory party. Just another reward for a game well played.
He doesn’t even know why he’s here. Or who he’s really here for. But across the room, the man watching him does. Seated. Relaxed. A glass of something dark and expensive swirling in his hand. A corporate suit. A club sponsor. A man who didn’t pay to watch tonight’s game. He paid for what happens after.
The corporate sponsor watches, eyes heavy-lidded, dragging over every inch of the jock’s sprawled, sweat-slicked body. The man is in no rush, fingers trailing lazily along the rim of his glass, the other hand settling over the bulge in his tailored slacks. He presses down, slow, deliberate, as if testing the weight of his own arousal, thumb grazing over the growing shape beneath the fabric.
Across the room, the jock is oblivious. His head lolls back against the wall, lips parted, his muscular frame melting into the post-game exhaustion, the buzz of alcohol settling in his veins. Or maybe it’s something more. Something heavier. His limbs feel slower than usual, his chest rising and falling with deep, drawn-out breaths, a glaze slipping over his sharp, dark eyes.
The sponsor shifts in his seat, legs spreading wider, rubbing his palm over himself again. The movement is unhurried, measured, as he watches the jock’s thighs flex, watches the way his damp shorts cling to his groin, the fabric dark with sweat. The game was just the warm-up. The real prize is sitting right in front of him. And the jock, in all his drunken, cocky arrogance, has no idea that he’s already lost.
The sponsor moves without a word. No warning. No hesitation. Just the slow, deliberate sound of polished leather sliding across the marble floor before his expensive loafer presses down against the jock’s flexed thigh.
The jock tenses, his glazed eyes blinking up in slow confusion, head still heavy against the wall. The warmth of the alcohol—or whatever else is swimming through his system—makes everything feel sluggish, delayed, like his body is processing the shift in power a few seconds too late.
The weight of the man’s foot is firm, unyielding, pressing against his thick muscle, sliding downward with purpose. The rich leather grazes over sweat-damp skin, dragging across the deep blue fabric clinging to his groin. The jock grunts, shifting under the pressure, but the loafer doesn’t lift. Instead, it tilts, nudging against him, testing.
Then the voice—smooth, patient, cutting through the thick, stagnant air between them. “You know what’s expected, boy.”
The jock exhales sharply, shaking his head, trying to push up, but the weight increases—grinding him back down. The realization comes slow, creeping, like a bad dream. The sponsor isn’t here to congratulate him. He’s here to collect.
The sponsor exhales through his nose, slow and measured, as he presses in closer. The loafer on the jock’s thigh grinds down, forcing those thick, sweat-slicked muscles to flex beneath the weight. But the real focus isn’t there.
It’s on the thick, heavy bulge now hovering inches from the jock’s handsome, flushed face.
The tailored slacks do nothing to hide the shape swelling beneath them—thick, full, pressing hard against the expensive fabric. A dark, wet patch spreads, seeping through, proof of just how much the sponsor is enjoying this, just how much he’s been waiting for this moment.
He watches the jock’s nostrils flare, his body twitch instinctively as the heat of it radiates toward his face. The sponsor shifts his hips forward, letting it graze the rough stubble along the jock’s sharp jawline, slow, deliberate, marking his territory.
“Smell that, boy?” The voice is deep, rich, dripping with control. The loafer tilts against the jock’s leg, pressing harder. “That’s the scent of power. The scent of money. And you’re gonna learn what it means to earn your place.”
The sponsor’s grip tightens in the jock’s damp, tousled hair, tilting his face up just enough to let that thick, damp bulge press against the sharp cut of his cheekbone. The heat of it is undeniable, the scent—rich, heady, masculine—filling the jock’s senses. The wet patch smears against his skin, spreading warmth, staking its claim.
The jock’s body stiffens, his jaw clenching, his broad chest heaving as if trying to suck in a breath that won’t steady him. He tries to shift away, but the loafer on his thigh keeps him pinned, pressing harder, digging into the muscle with slow, grinding pressure.
The sponsor chuckles, low and amused, his hips shifting forward again, dragging that thick bulge along the jock’s cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. “That resistance…” The older man inhales through his nose, savoring it. “It won’t last long. Not after tonight.”
The jock growls under his breath, his hands balling into fists, his body tensing as though he still believes he has some control left. But the sponsor sees it—the flicker of uncertainty in those dark, defiant eyes. The creeping awareness of just how deep he’s in.
“Open.” The sponsor’s voice sharpens, the grip in his hair tightening. The jock jerks slightly, his lips parting just enough—just enough for the sponsor to push in further, to let that damp, pulsing heat press against them.
“Taste your new contract, boy.”
The jock chokes the second the sponsor presses forward, his lips instinctively sealing shut, his throat clenching before even taking anything inside. His breath comes sharp and uneven, nostrils flaring as the thick, damp heat of that bulge smears against his parted lips, teasing, testing. He’s never done this before, never even imagined himself in a position like this. The wrongness of it buzzes in his head, but the sponsor’s grip is firm, controlling, his fingers tangling deeper into the jock’s sweat-damp curls, keeping him right where he wants him.
The sponsor chuckles, feeling the hesitation, the way the jock’s jaw tenses, his lips barely opening, as if still thinking he has a choice in this. “You don’t even know how to start, do you, boy?” he murmurs, the amusement thick in his voice. He presses forward, grinding that swollen, wet spot directly against the jock’s mouth, forcing him to feel the weight of it, to taste the damp heat seeping through the fabric.
The jock lets out a muffled grunt, his thick thighs twitching under the pressure, hands gripping at nothing. He wants to push back, but the belt-tight grip in his hair keeps him locked in place. The sponsor moves with deliberate patience, rocking his hips slightly, dragging the hard length along those soft, resistant lips, smearing that salty wetness across them.
“Come on, athlete,” the sponsor taunts, voice smooth, rich with control. “Where’s all that discipline, huh? You follow orders on the field. Follow mine now.”
The jock shudders, his face burning, his lips trembling slightly as he swallows thickly, trying to push the nausea back down. His hands twitch, useless at his sides, his whole body locked in conflict, instincts screaming at him to fight, to throw the bastard off, but his strength feels… muted. Sluggish. His limbs heavy, his thoughts hazy from the lingering buzz of the alcohol—or whatever the hell else is in his system.
The sponsor finally pulls back just slightly, just enough for the jock to gasp in a full breath—only to shove forward again, this time pressing past those trembling lips, forcing the thick, damp heat into the jock’s untouched, untrained mouth.
The jock chokes immediately. His body reacts on instinct—his throat locking up, his lips sealing tight, his whole body recoiling—but the sponsor doesn’t let him pull away. The grip in his hair tightens, holding him in place, keeping him locked in the humiliating position as he struggles, gags, his whole body tensing, flexing, instinctively trying to fight it.
The sponsor groans softly, feeling the immediate resistance, the way the jock’s virgin throat refuses to take even the first inch without choking. Exactly what he wanted.
Raw. Untouched. A straight jock’s unused mouth, being broken in for the first time.
The sponsor tightens his grip, keeping the jock’s face pressed against the thick bulge, feeling the way his breath stutters, the way his lips tremble against the damp fabric. The jock’s whole body is tense, every muscle flexed, his strong thighs twitching, his broad chest heaving as if trying to will himself out of this. But the sponsor doesn’t let up.
“Use your mouth,” the sponsor orders, voice smooth, controlled, yet dripping with authority. “Unzip me.”
The jock shudders, his jaw clenching, his lips parting slightly in confusion, in hesitation. His body tenses like he’s about to shake his head, but the sponsor’s grip in his hair tightens immediately—a warning. No more resistance.
His lips brush against the zipper, the sharp metal cold against his flushed skin. His breathing is shaky, uneven, his nostrils flaring as he exhales hard, trying to summon some kind of focus. But he doesn’t know how to do this. He’s never done anything like this before, never been in a position where he’s forced to use his mouth in this way.
He tries, lips parting wider, teeth carefully scraping over the zipper, his tongue pressing against it for leverage. His jaw aches already, the humiliating struggle of trying to maneuver his way around something so simple—a fucking zipper—making his face burn with shame. His first attempt fails, his lips slipping uselessly against the metal. His breathing turns ragged, frustration mixing with embarrassment as he realizes how utterly pathetic he must look.
The sponsor smirks, watching the helpless movements, the awkward, messy attempts. “Come on, athlete,” he taunts, voice thick with amusement. “All those perfect stats, all that precision on the field, and you can’t even do this?”
The jock grits his teeth, humiliation sinking deeper. His strong jaw flexes, his lips pressing in tighter around the metal, trying again, fumbling, struggling, knowing he looks like a fucking idiot—
Then, finally—the slow, dragging sound of the zipper peeling open.
The sponsor exhales through his nose, watching, savoring, feeling the faint tremble of the jock’s breath against him. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Learning already.”
The scent hits him first—thick, musky, raw male dominance. The moment the fabric peels away, the jock's face twists, his stomach tightening at the sheer presence of it. Heavy. Untrimmed. Dark, swollen veins pulsing along its thick shaft, already slick at the tip. The heat radiating from it is undeniable, a weight of pure authority resting inches from his trembling lips.
He breathes hard through his nose, nostrils flaring, trying to keep himself together. But the humiliation is suffocating. This is what his contract renewal means. This is what he agreed to, unknowingly signing himself over the moment he fucked up and knocked up that girl.
He needed the club’s backing. The sponsor made sure he got it. But nothing in this world comes for free.
The older man groans low in satisfaction, fingers tightening in the jock’s damp curls, forcing his face closer. The wet tip smears against his lips, a salty slickness marking his mouth like a brand.
“Gotta pay your dues, athlete.” The voice is smooth, rich, amused, savoring every second of the young stud’s humiliation. “This is part of your contract now. You’re gonna earn every cent we put into you.”
The jock shudders, his thick, muscled frame twitching as he grips his own thighs to keep from shaking. His jaw clenches, lips trembling, his whole body screaming at him to resist. He has never done this before. Never imagined himself in this position. And yet—here he is. Contracted. Owned.
The sponsor chuckles at his struggle, at the way his proud, defiant eyes flicker with disgust, with resistance, with the dawning, inescapable realization of what comes next.
“Open wide, boy. Time to show your commitment to the team.”
The grip in his hair tightens, pulling his head forward, forcing his lips to brush against the slick, throbbing length. His breath comes out shaky, hot against the thick flesh, his mouth still clenched shut in one final act of defiance. But the sponsor doesn’t hesitate—he just smirks, dragging the swollen head across the jock’s trembling lips, smearing that salty wetness over them, marking him.
The older man’s other hand grips the back of the jock’s neck, fingers digging into the tense muscle, guiding him forward, testing his resistance. The jock jerks slightly, his broad shoulders flexing, trying to pull back, but he’s held firm—trapped between the fingers in his hair and the thick, damp heat pressing insistently against his mouth.
“Come on, athlete. You wanna play or not?” The sponsor’s voice is teasing, but his grip is anything but.
A sudden thrust—forcing past the jock’s lips, parting them, pushing the slick tip inside. The jock gags immediately, his throat convulsing, his thick neck flexing hard as he instinctively tries to pull back, but the sponsor just lets out a slow, satisfied groan and tightens his grip.
The jock’s arms twitch at his sides, his powerful thighs flexing beneath him, his broad chest heaving as he struggles against the intrusion. His jaw stretches wide, lips swollen around the thick girth, his breath shuddering through his nose as his throat locks up, trying to reject what’s being forced inside.
The sponsor laughs, feeling the jock’s struggle, the way his muscles tense, the way his throat clenches around the first few inches. He’s never done this before. Never had to work his tongue, never had to fight his gag reflex, never had to breathe through his nose to keep from choking.
And the sponsor loves every second of it.
He pulls back, slow, letting the jock gasp, his lips parting, spit glistening at the corners of his mouth. Then another thrust—deeper this time, making him take more, making him feel the full weight of what’s inside him. The jock chokes again, his body jerking, his throat convulsing violently around the thick length pressing deeper.
A sharp grip in his hair, pulling him off just enough to make him gasp for air—then back in, forcing him to work, forcing his throat to stretch, forcing his body to adapt. The sponsor watches every reaction, every twitch of the jock’s muscular frame, every heave of his broad chest, savoring the way his body is slowly breaking in.
“Yeah… that’s it, boy. Keep going. You got a long night ahead of you.”
The sponsor’s grip tightens, both hands now locked in the jock’s damp curls, controlling his every movement. The thick, heavy shaft grinds against his tongue, slick with spit, stretching his jaw wide. The taste floods his senses—warm, musky, salty, dripping onto his lips.
The jock gags, hard. His throat convulses, his whole body tensing as the sponsor shoves in deeper, forcing him to take more, forcing his lips down the pulsing shaft. The sound is raw, wet—a deep, choking gag that rattles in his chest.
The sponsor groans, feeling that tight throat fight, spasm, refuse— but it won’t last.
He pulls back, slow, watching the thick strings of spit cling between the jock’s swollen lips and the slick, twitching head. The jock gasps, his breath ragged, his jaw aching, his broad chest heaving. But he doesn’t get to recover.
Another thrust. Faster. Deeper.
The wet slap of skin against spit-slick lips echoes in the dim room. The jock’s thick neck flexes, his jaw locked open, forced to stretch around the relentless invasion. His powerful arms twitch, fingers gripping his own thighs, nails digging into his muscled flesh as his body instinctively fights what’s happening.
The sponsor picks up the pace, forcing the jock’s head down further each time, letting that untrained throat choke, convulse, gag over and over. It’s messy, sloppy, exactly how he wants it. A straight, untouched jock mouth—no skill, no technique, just raw, involuntary reactions.
“That gag reflex…” The sponsor laughs, thrusting in hard enough to make the jock choke again, spit splattering down his own chin. “Gonna enjoy ruining that.”
The jock chokes, sputters, gags violently, the sounds wet, raw, desperate. His throat convulses around the thick intrusion, his nostrils flaring as he struggles to breathe, his broad chest heaving. "Ghhhk—! Hhhlggk—!" His lips stretch wider, spit spilling from the corners, his jaw trembling as he fights to keep up with the relentless pace.
"Mmmph—! Hkk—gluhhkk!" His muffled, broken noises echo in the dim room, mixing with the slick sounds of his spit-coated mouth working against the heavy length being shoved deeper. His powerful thighs twitch, his whole body tensing and jerking as the sponsor forces him further, making him take more, making him struggle harder.
"Hhhlggk—ahhgkk—!" His throat tightens, spasming around the thick shaft, sending vibrations up the sponsor’s length. The older man groans, gripping the jock’s hair tighter, pressing down harder, forcing that strong, untrained throat to stretch, to take it, to surrender.
The gags come faster, louder. The jock’s muffled whimpers push through the slick, sloppy sounds, his wet lips smacking against the base as his resistance crumbles. His powerful chest shakes, veins bulging in his thick neck, his body betraying him piece by piece.
"Ahhhkk—ghhhk—hhuullkkk—!"
The sponsor moans, feeling every squeeze, every desperate choke, savoring every ruined noise spilling from that once-proud jock mouth.
The sponsor tightens his grip in the jock’s soaked hair, forcing him down until his nose presses against the thick base. The wet slap of skin against lips echoes through the room, the jock’s strangled “Ghhhk—! Hhhlggk—!" broken by each brutal thrust into his wrecked throat. He gags, chokes, shudders, his thick arms twitching as if he still thinks he can fight, his thighs flexing uselessly beneath him. But the sponsor isn’t here for a fight.
He pulls back just enough for the jock to suck in a desperate, ragged breath—then slaps him. Hard. A sharp, open-palmed strike across the flushed, tear-streaked cheek. The jock jolts, his dark, glossy eyes snapping wide, his spit-slick lips parting in shock.
"This isn’t a one-time thing, boy." The sponsor’s voice is low, controlled, terrifying in its finality.
He slaps the jock again. Not for fun. To teach.
The jock grunts, his body twitching, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to swallow the humiliation, the sheer fucking reality of what’s happening. The sponsor watches his jaw tremble, his chest rising and falling like he’s about to say something—but nothing comes out. Because there’s nothing to say.
The sponsor drags his heavy, still-dripping shaft across the jock’s spit-slick, swollen lips, smearing him, marking him. His other hand releases his hair just long enough to grip his chin, his jaw, his throat, feeling the strong muscle beneath, feeling the pulse hammering fast against his palm.
"I own you now," he murmurs, pressing down, forcing the jock to feel the weight of it. "Every time I want you, you drop to your knees. No hesitation. No fight. This is your job now."
The jock swallows hard, his lips still parted, his whole body stiff, not wanting to accept what he already knows is true.
The sponsor smirks, shifting his grip, wrapping his fingers around the jock’s spent, twitching throat as he leans in, voice hot, final, undeniable.
"And the sooner you understand that, the easier this will be for you."
The jock barely manages a breath, his swollen lips parting, voice hoarse, trembling— “I—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
The sponsor’s grip tightens instantly in his damp curls, yanking his head forward, slamming that wet, pulsing heat back into his wrecked throat. The jock gags violently, his whole body tensing, throat convulsing, slick, messy noises echoing through the room.
"No, boy." The sponsor’s voice is low, sharp, final. "You don’t speak. Not until I’ve spilled inside you."
The thrusts come harder, deeper. The jock chokes, his thick neck flexing, jaw stretched wide, spit dribbling down his chin, mixing with the sweat slicking his sculpted chest. His powerful thighs tremble, his strong hands twitching, useless at his sides, his whole body locked in resistance—but resistance isn’t an option anymore.
The sponsor groans, grinding deeper, feeling that untouched throat spasm around him, every gag, every struggle only making him push harder. The jock is learning. Not with words, not with reason—but with force.
"That’s it. No talking, no fighting. Just taking." He grips the jock’s throat tightly, feeling the way it strains, the way it stretches, the way his Adam’s apple bobs helplessly with every forced swallow.
The jock’s body twitches, his broad chest shuddering, his nostrils flaring as his ruined throat takes it again, and again, and again—
Until he’s nothing but a used-up, broken, obedient toy.
The sponsor grips the back of the jock’s damp, sweat-matted head, locking him in place before shifting the rhythm. Deep. All the way in. Balls-deep, suffocating heat, nose pressed against the musky scent of his groin.
The jock gags hard, his throat collapsing in on itself, his lips smacking wetly as he gasps for breath, only to have it stolen again.
The sponsor slams back in—fast, brutal, a pistol-like rhythm—forcing his raw, unused throat to take it over and over.
“Hhhgkk—! Hhhkkk! Guhhlkk—!” The jock can’t adjust, can’t prepare, can’t do anything but choke, his whole body trembling as the pace shifts violently, never letting him find balance.
His gag reflex is wrecked, abused, milked for every reaction. Spit spills from his lips, slicking his chin, dripping onto his thick, heaving pecs. His broad, powerful shoulders jerk uselessly, his throat convulsing, struggling, failing.
The sponsor groans, watching the jock's bulging throat stretch around his cock, feeling every pulse, every tight, squeezing clench. His hand tightens in the jock’s hair, controlling him completely, guiding him, using him like a toy.
The jock shudders, nostrils flaring as he takes every inch, his throat locked tight, raw and stretched, swallowing around the thick weight invading him.
And then—ripped out again.
Until he stops fighting. Until his body stops resisting. Until he’s completely, utterly broken.
The jock’s throat is destroyed—raw, stretched, swollen from the relentless assault. His body trembles, his chest heaving, his muscles twitching, every nerve on fire from the brutal rhythm that never let up. His lips are red, glistening, spit-slicked, swollen from the unrelenting use, his jaw barely holding itself up.
And then, he finally breaks.
A hoarse, muffled whimper pushes past his ruined throat. His hands—still clenched into useless fists on his powerful thighs—shake as his breath stutters between chokes. His body doesn’t even fight anymore. His resistance is gone, shattered beneath every violent, suffocating thrust.
“Please—” His voice is wrecked, barely a sound between gasps. He sucks in a shallow, trembling breath, his thick, flexed neck bobbing, every muscle tight with humiliation. “Please—finish inside—I can’t—can’t breathe—”
The sponsor groans, shoving back in deep, making the jock choke again, making his whole body jolt as his gag reflex spasms one last time.
“Yeah, that’s right, boy,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction. “You want it, don’t you? You need it.” His grip tightens, locking the jock in place, forcing him down one last time. “Swallow what I give you.”
A deep, guttural moan—thick, hot ropes flooding into the jock’s destroyed throat, pulse after pulse, coating his tongue, forcing him to gulp it down in desperate, messy swallows. But there’s too much.
The first few desperate gulps go down, but the next pulses are too much to handle, too much to swallow—
Thick, warm streaks running down his chin, splattering onto his broad, sweaty pecs, rolling down the ridges of his sculpted abs.
It soaks into his blue shorts, darkening the fabric, staining it, dripping down his muscular thighs.
It reaches his long blue socks, streaking down in wet, glistening trails, even leaking onto his cleats.
The jock is left covered, dripping, ruined.
His chest heaves, his arms twitch, his lips parting as he gasps, his throat pulsing as the last remnants slip down. He looks wrecked, wrecked in a way he’s never been before. His whole body shaking, coated, marked.
He just smirks, leaning back, watching his new property, fully broken, fully used.
