This is David, our team’s laundry boy. I employed him to wash the players’ uniforms so I could focus on coaching and not have to pay for a private company to come wash the uniforms. Besides, it’s best not to let just anyone handle my boys’ sweaty gear. My players are all star Alphas, who work up an intense musk after a big game, or even after an intense practice. The stuff is almost radioactive, it’s so potent. Exposure to the fumes can cause feelings of dizziness, confusion, dumbness, numbness, and of course submission to the jocks. David here has—or had— a special gene that allowed him some resistance to the powers of the musk. He wasn’t invincible, of course, but he could at least stand in the same lockerroom as the boys, begrudgingly collecting their discarded gear. He’d hold his breath to help resist the jock musk as he scooped up the sweat-saturated spandex all around the room while the jocks chuckled. Compression shorts and shirts, tights, jerseys, socks, even sweaty helmets. But those shiny purple padded pants... something about those always drew David’s attention. Something about the royal hue of the purple, the way the dewy sweat of the game would make them sparkle in the light made him kind of want to... No. He was here to do his job, he’d tell himself, wash the gear in the school’s industrial washer, and in exchange I’d give him gym credit since he didn’t want to run the mile. He wanted to make coach happy. I seem to have that effect in most people. And I picked up on David’s curiosity to put on those purple pants. That’s why I had my players do what they did. It was a Friday night, the night of a big game for my boys. They absolutely dominated on the field. All my players were hot and sweaty from the game, and pumped up with testosterone. On cue, they seized David from the sidelines and carried him off as a team to the bench outside the fence. David struggled in vain; his scrawny arms were no match for the huge jacked jocks. He whined like a bitch as they made him strip and put on some of their sweaty gear.
Compression shorts and an UnderArmour shirt as the base layers, stained with sweat and cum. They even made David put in some sweat-saturated socks. And those purple pants, those smelly royal purple pants, fresh from the game, he watched as they were slid onto his legs, and finally he got to feel what it must be like to be a football player wearing those tight, padded pants. He had to admit to himself, they felt really good. The QB made David put on his sweat-filled shoes, and then the boys pinned him to the bench and made quick work of him, wrapping him in duct tape and tightly sealing him down. He wriggled and struggled, to no avail.
“Come on guys, what the fuck!” He cried. “Let me go man!”
The jocks just laughed. Called David a stupid loser and teased him.
“He can’t even break the tape, bro, what a pussy!” My tight-end laughed.
“You guys are so...” David weekly trailed off. Seemed like the effects of the vapors of my player’s musk were starting to take hold. Wearing the gear was making him high. He got dizzy and confused for a second. “You guys are fucked! I’m telling Coach!”
That’s when I stepped in through the players to reveal my complicity in the matter.
“Chill out, Dave,” I laughed. “I knew you wanted to try on the gear, boy, and this is what it feels like!”
My jocks kept laughing at him. They were having a blast watching the dumbass laundry boy get humiliated like this.
“This shit stinks, Coach! This isn’t fucking fair!” David protested.
“If the gear stinks, I guess th e Laundry Boy ain’t very good at his job,” I laughed. “Why don’t you settle down, boy, stop struggling, breathe in the musk of the jocks. Think about how it feels to have the sweaty gear of all these dudes on. You want this. Deep down you’ve always wanted this, and that’s why you wanted to be the team’s laundry boy in the first place. I’ve seen the way you look at their sweaty gear, and I’m doing you a favor here.”
With that, I took off my own shoe, which in and of itself was pretty rank from wearing during my coaching duties and all of the gym classes I teach. I put it over David’s nose and mouth as he tried to shake his head in protest, and wrapped duct tape around his head so he couldn’t shake the shoe off. I laughed and pressed down on the shoe.
“Breathe deeply, Davey,” I told him over his muffled cries through my sweaty shoe. “My scent, combined with all my sweaty players, all this alpha musk? It’s gonna turn you into a real bitch boy for us, ok? The smell has a way of making boys like you a little bit more submissive. It’s how we mark our territory. By the end of this, you’ll never stop being our Laundry Boy. You’ll crave being around load upon load of sweaty spandex, and you’ll even blow your load at the sight of those purple pants, whether they’re being worn or not. Deep breaths, boy.”
His struggling was short-lived. He loved this and I could tell. He was hard in those sweat-soaked pants, inhaling the musk from my shoe and his new uniform. We left him there all night, and he was transformed after that. Now he lives to serve the team more than ever, and he can no longer resist the foggy haze that the musk of a real man fills his mind with. He’s ours.
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
janainaart
discoholicmusic
jacobvanloon
