🔞 This story features graphic descriptions of m/m sexual content. All characters act with full consent. All characters are 18+ in age. 🔞
The man sold me one jockstrap and gifted me the other. Every man who fucks in it must pass it on. These are the stories of the men who wore it.
The store looked sterile and white, brightly lit with nearly daytime-color LEDs and rows and rows of things that I wish didn’t turn me on as much as they did. The smell of cotton, spandex, leather, and rubber assaulted me almost as much as the lights, and I almost walked back out. But no. Clutched in my hand was my phone, the email pulled up with the list of gear I needed and a discount code of 20% for this store and this store only.
The tile was hard under my feet as I walked through the aisles. Football helmets, shoulder pads, then cleats that gave way to shin guards for soccer; or, the other football. I knew the sports, I knew the green fuzzy balls in this next aisle were for tennis, the small hard ones with the dents were golf, the larger ones with the stitching were for baseball. I knew them all.
This was just the first time I could actually do something about it.
Jerseys, mesh tops, mesh shorts. Speedos. Then, the cups. Hard, soft, thick bands or thin. I stared. Trying to look like I wasn’t staring. Especially when someone walked by.
I’d fantasized so much about this gear, and now I was actually going to be able to wear it and get sweaty in it and ... no. Can’t do that here. I wore the tightest briefs I had because I knew this would happen.
Someone must’ve seen me staring. The man approached, greying temples, walking through and looking at the merchandise like he owned the place, and smiling at me like I was his best friend. With a 20% discount.
“Can I help you?”
The phrase was so cliché that it helped with my downstairs problem.
“Uh, yah! I mean, no. I’m good. Looking.” Fuck.
He smiled and nodded. Like I wasn’t the first boned up college guy who he’d seen eyeing the jockstraps.
He reached out his hand. “Tony.”
“Nolan.” I shook it. Firm. Warm. Tingles ...
He cleared his throat and my eyes re-focused. “I’m fine with you ‘looking,’ but when you’re done ‘looking,’ is there anything I can help you with? Like, are you looking for stuff for any particular sport?”
“Wrestling.” I fumbled with my phone, held it up to my face for the ID, and showed him the email.
His head made an exaggerated nod, then in a quiet voice like he was speaking to himself: “Right, gotcha. I knew it’d be a good idea to offer that to the coach. Win-win.” He looked up from my phone to my face. “The main wrestling equipment is three aisles down. But, you are in the right place for the jocks. Don’t wanna be one of those guys in the tight singlet who makes it onto Instagram because they’re not wearing a cup and have a raging hard-on, right?”
I turned redder than the red jockstraps I was standing next to. His eyebrows went up, then returned to normal. His head shifted to the side, and he just said one word: “Or ... ?”
“No! No Sir. I mean, yes, I need a strap to play. I... I’m new to this.” I looked down at my feet, I couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Asthma. Real bad. I couldn’t do anything. Always wanted to, but I tried track and I got just past the starting point and needed my inhaler. Left-side half-back in soccer because it didn’t get much action but the first time in a real game and an ambulance had to be called. But there’s like some new medication I’m on and I can breathe again. The doctor cleared me, and since I was never able to really do weights or bulk or anything I thought wrestling could be good because of the different weight classes.”
I looked back up at him.
“Huh. So, this is the first thing.”
“This is the first thing.” I nodded, relaxing slightly.
“Then we’re doing it right.” He looked again at the list, then up to the lights and moved his mouth like he was talking to himself. Then he looked at me. “We need to measure you. Do you know your rough waist size? We can grab the inventory then go in the back and measure properly.”
“Uh, like 30? Maybe 32?” I was not going to admit my mom still bought most of my clothes.
“Okay, that’s easy, and it’s what I’d guess.” He looked me up and down, professional-like.
He took a few packages so quickly I couldn’t fully follow. Then he walked down a bit and looked at the cups. He looked back at me quickly, then to the shelf. He took two, putting them with the rest of the stuff.
“Come with me to the fitting room, we’ll figure out what works best. If we don’t size you properly, you’ll just have to come back anyway.”
I followed him as he walked through the aisles like a maze, finally getting to an area with a sign that said “FITTING ROOMS” over the break in the wall. A few stalls were there, all with doors partly open.
He entered one, and he gestured for me to follow. He put the packets on the bench. “Okay, first thing’s first: I’m going to take measurements of you, which will require me touching you somewhat. Is that okay? Or do you want to do it yourself?”
I nodded. He cocked his head. “No, it’s fine, thanks. I wouldn’t know what I’m doing.”
“Well, I could tell you how to do it. I could even dig up a small doll and show you, though I’d have to find one.”
“No really, it’s fine for you to touch me.” Double-fuck. Good thing red was my color because, well, it was definitely my color now.
He didn’t react, he just said, “Okay, take off your shirt, I’m going to measure your chest, stomach, shoulders.”
I took it off, folded it, and put it on the bench. He chuckled a bit when I folded it.
“Okay, this might be a little cold.” He took the measuring tape from around his neck and came close, and the scent of some musky cologne filled my nose. I tried not to inhale deeply – or, not inhale loudly. The tape went around my shoulders, and then he pulled out his phone and tapped something in.
“Arms out.”
I put them out, he measured around my slim pecs. More tapping on the phone, then he knelt and did the middle of my abs. I was proud of those! I couldn’t do much, but I could do basic core exercises a little at a time. His hand grazed them as he drew the tape measure tight, and he tapped in another number. He looked up at me. “Can you lower your shorts? And then your underwear just a little? I need to get a clean waist measurement.” I didn’t respond, I just did it. I could feel his warm breath through my tighty whities, and I closed my eyes and willed myself to stay soft. His hands ran the length of the measure tape to make sure it was against my skin, and then he tapped something in his phone.
He looked up at me. “Thirty-three, if you want to know. Or update your mom.”
For the third time, I got bright red. He stood up and laughed. “I’m sorry, that was a lucky guess. Most guys your age in my experience wouldn’t buy underwear like that, it’s usually a hold-over. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No! I mean, I’ve just been the same size for a while. And, like ... no, she doesn’t buy my underwear.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, man. I get it. You think you’re my first? I’ve been in this business a long time; heck, I was you at one point. My dad couldn’t stand it, he’d sneak me jockstraps from inventory and said, ‘Tony, for heaven’s sake, stop letting your mom buy you that crap. You’re an adult, wear something better.’”
I’d started to relax again.
“Okay, now that that’s out of the way, I’d like to get your inseam. That means I need to measure from your crotch down. Are you okay with that?”
I nodded, hesitating just a moment.
He got on his knees again and held the tape measure against me. The back of his hand was cool against my heat, and I tried so very hard not to react as he drew the measure down. I won’t say I succeeded.
He stood back up and tapped some more on his phone. He looked at me. “Okay, I think that you’re a size medium.” He handed me a packet. “That will also let you wear a cup.” He pointed at the two plastic cups. “I’m going to leave the changing room, try on that medium, and it should feel snug, slightly tight, but not cut off circulation or anything. Try moving a bit, do some high step, lunge, whatever. If you’re comfortable, and if you’re okay with it, you can call me back in and I can make sure it looks like it’s fitting right.” And he walked out.
I shut the door and did the latch thing. I looked at the strap he’d pointed to, and I tore open the wrapper. Lowered my underwear, my dick semi-hard among my trimmed, brown pubes. Still a man, but not a ‘squatch. I pulled the strap on. I let it snap gently into place, then I adjusted the straps in the back like I’d seen in the movies in the private web browser. You could learn practical lessons from those, it wasn’t just for getting off.
I looked in the mirror, and I got stiffer. Tenting. Because it was how I’d imagined it. Sexy. Almost freeing. I turned around, my butt to the mirror. I looked back. The blue band and the white straps cupping my cheeks, lifting and tucking. I felt hot in the cool room.
“How’s it going?”
Right. “Uh, fine!”
I bent my legs, lifted a foot up. I did a lunge, watching it grope my butt, the pouch filled with me, jutting out in a way my old underwear just didn’t. I’d do me.
“Do you need any help, or are you good?”
I stood up quickly and felt a tiny pinch. I “Eep!”’d.
“You okay?”
“Yah, it did a thing when I stood up. Um, maybe you could take a look?”
I heard him at the door, then I went to unlock it, and he came in. He closed the door. “I’m gonna lock it, but obviously it’s just a little bar if you need to get out, but I want to protect your privacy.”
I nodded. Did he have to say all that?
“Where did it pinch?”
I pointed to under my balls. He got on his knees again and looked up at me. I nodded. He raised his hand to cup my balls, my hard dick resting against the side of his hand. He looked. Then released.
“I don’t see anything obvious. How does the strap feel?”
“Fine?”
“May I?”
“Yah.”
He put his fingers through the strap and ran them along my waist. I shuddered. I was still rock-hard. He let it snap back as he pulled his fingers out. He stood and walked around to my back, did the same thing with the straps. “They seem fine to me. I’d be concerned about going up a size that it’d be too loose. Even with a cup. This is a good size for you as far as I can tell, though we could try a different brand that runs slightly larger if you’d like.”
I did a lunge or two and stood up quickly again. I didn’t feel the pinch.
He walked to my front, looking down at my tent. Then he looked at my face. Like, he was going to say the thing about the obvious thing that I was trying so hard ... to not be an obvious thing.
“I’d ask if you want to try a hard cup. But,” he looked down again, then back to my eyes, “to use a cliché, ‘you have a bit of a problem that we have to take care of’ if you want to try it.”
I gulped and reddened again. Triple-fuck. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious, but calling it out made it feel worse.
He put up his hands. “Look, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. You’re not the first guy to get hard in a jockstrap, you certainly won’t be the last. And to be blunt and cliché again, if you want, I can help you with that. If you’d like. Which, if I’ve read you right, I think you would.”
As with other things today, I nodded.
His face tightened. “I’d prefer words.”
“Yes,” I croaked. It was like he wanted to hear me say it, because that would make it more of a thing: I was admitting it to him, but to myself, too.
And he didn’t know that, like wrestling, I’d never done this before.
“Okay then.” Without ceremony, he took his shirt off. His chest was lean and the hair dark with a spray of silver from the center. I sat on the bench, and I looked up at him, my heart beating quickly in my chest, so loud I was sure he’d hear it.
He put his hand on the back of my neck. He didn’t pull, he just put it there. “It’s okay,” he said in a soft voice that reminded me of my mom’s when she wanted to cut the cat’s nails. “You can leave any time you want to.”
I stayed seated.
“The nice thing about a jockstrap,” he started again as he undid his belt, “is you can wear it under anything.”
“Anything?”
“Well, maybe not Speedos. But, certainly a store uniform. Shorts. Or pants and a belt.” He pulled the belt out of the loops, slowly, teasing.
I gulped.
“I’m even wearing one right now.”
He brought his free hand that wasn’t on my neck down to one of my hands. He gently grasped it, and I let him pull it up. He put it on his crotch. I felt heat, and a bulge.
“Do you feel the strap?”
I shook my head.
“Exactly. You can wear it under practically anything.”
He let go of my hand, and it fell back to my leg. He pulled his pants down, and there was a white jockstrap, white band. Mesh. Struggling to contain a hard cock.
He brought my hand up again, and I felt it. It felt like I’d imagined it would watching all those clips. Firm, dry, textured, and so warm. I could feel it throb, unless that was my imagination, and his heavy balls filled out the base of the pouch.
“Do you want to taste it?”
I looked up at him and nodded. Then I snapped my mouth shut, I didn’t realize it was open.
“One rule.”
“Huh?”
He looked a little sheepish. “There’s a thing that I started a few years back. It might sound silly, but it can be so hot when you see it later. If we do anything sex-wise together while I’m wearing this, you have to take it with you. I’ll initial it, then you take it with you. And wear it as you like. And if you do have sex in it with someone, you have to tell them the rule first. And if they agree, do what you do with them, then you pass it on after you initial it. Some guys call it ‘The Brotherhood of the Traveling Jockstrap.’ Others have called it ‘The JockBro-Code.’ I’m sure there are other names, they probably get dirtier. I don’t care what you call it, but that’s the rule: Offer to take it off, but then if you have sex in it, you initial it and have to pass it on. Okay?”
“Fuck ...” then I clapped my hand over my mouth.
He laughed. “I can see by yours that you’re okay with that, right?”
“Yah. Definitely.”
“Alright man, sounds good. Now, why don’t you taste it?”
My first dick. My lips were suddenly so dry. I licked them. Then realized I was licking my lips and my mouth was half a foot from a hard dick encased in a jockstrap.
I leaned closer. I could feel the heat coming off it, like waves. I could almost hear the “whomp ... whomp ... whomp” of the warmth and heady scent; or, porn had primed me to imagine it. All I knew is that in front of me was a hard dick and attached to me was another hard dick, both clad in thin fabric.
I closed the gap and inhaled. I moved my head, traveling its length. I stuck my tongue out, a gentle lick. It was warm. But I knew that. It was hard, but I also knew that. I wasn’t prepared for the cottony but slightly salty taste. I’d stopped noticing his hand on my neck until it moved, his fingers running gently through my hair. I licked the length. I shifted down, I licked his balls. Heavy, and softer, they moved when his hard cock didn’t.
I raised my hand and moved the fabric over just a bit. The head peeked out. The skin was so much smoother than the jock, but it smelled so much stronger, tasted so much better as I licked it. He kept running his fingers through the hair on the back of my head.
I tried to fit it in my mouth. I licked, I tried to suck.
He pulled back. I looked up at him. “Careful with your teeth.”
I tried again, and he pulled back again.
“Gonna ask you a question, it’s okay if you don’t want to answer it. Have you done this much before? Or, ever?”
I didn’t answer.
“Okay, that’s fine. Here, how about on a day of firsts, I show you what it’s like.” He moved his hand from my head, and he knelt down. “Stand up.” I did.
My cloth-clad throbbing dick with a dark, wet spot at the head was less than a foot from his face. I braced myself.
He didn’t go for it right away. He put his hands on my hips, and he ran his fingers along my entire waist again, between the skin and the blue strap. They met in the front, and his index fingers tickled the top of my cock while his palms gently rubbed.
I made a sound.
“Yah, that’s the good part,” he said. “You’ve the fabric between you and everything. It’s a whole different thing. And the clothing? The cloth hiding you yet letting me in and around it ... savor it.”
I moaned again.
One hand stayed where it was, finger hooked in the band, palm pressed and rubbing against my dick through the jockstrap. His other hand went around behind me and cupped my butt through the straps, and he pulled me in half a step. I stumbled and grabbed his shoulder; he just kept his eyes glued to mine. His fingers spread over the skin of my ass, and I experienced exactly what I knew: The back of a jockstrap isn’t designed for athletics or breathability; it was designed for this. Just this. The fabric that claims it’s blocking something, but in reality it’s a pretense for more access.
“You’re shaking.”
“I am?”
“You want me to stop?”
“No Sir.”
He chuckled again. “You don’t have to call me ‘Sir.’”
“What if I want to?”
His open mouth closed, and he just smiled. “You do you man. If calling me ‘Sir’ is what makes you happy, fuck if I care.”
“Yes Sir.”
Then he hooked two fingers in the edge of the pouch and pulled it to the side, and I was out in the cool, dry air until his warm, wet mouth enveloped me.
I don’t know what I expected. Warm, I guess. I knew it would be warm. Nobody tells you about the rest of it. What getting your dick sucked for the first time is really like.
“Oh!”
He hummed and I felt that, too.
He went slowly. He went down my length, and I shuddered the entire time. His hand stayed on my ass and every so often his fingers flexed and pulled me in a little further, and then the pressure on my ass let up and his mouth backed up, and my dick was cold. Colder than before. Then I felt his tongue. Just a small, little lick. It made me shudder again. He licked again. I closed my eyes, head back. He licked all over. Random spots. Kept me guessing, making it all the hotter before his mouth enveloped me again and his hands pulled on my ass to bring me more inside him.
I looked down.
I shouldn’t have looked down.
My dick was buried to the hilt in his mouth, he was looking up into my eyes, his nose in my pubic hairs, and ...
“I’m gonna,” I said. “I think I’m gonna.”
He opened his mouth wide and sucked, the cold air immediately stopping what was going to happen. He pulled off, my dick exited his mouth, and I tried to finish what had almost started. I couldn’t.
“What? Why?!”
“Question first.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and looked up at me. He was smiling, grinning almost. “You ever been rimmed?”
I looked down at him, distracted by his silver chest hairs for a moment while I thought.
“Is that ... a basketball thing? The ball goes around the basket and then in?”
He took in a deep breath, and his lips were pressed tightly together. He still laughed like he couldn’t help it. My dick throbbed near his head, balls still encased by the fabric of the pouch while he finished.
“No,” he said. “But, honestly? Same idea, kinda.”
“What do you mean?”
“Turn around and bend over. Trust me, you’ll like it.”
I did as he said, bending over the bench, ass on full display. I heard him exhale, the quiet word “beautiful” in his breath. Then: “Nolan, has anyone ever told you you have an amazing ass?”
I paused for a moment. “No? I think I can honestly say that.”
“Well, you do. I’m not just saying that because it’s framed by two straps of a well-fitting jockstrap if I do say so myself.” Then I felt a burst of air at my hole, and I yelped. He chuckled. I felt him run his hands along the straps again, kneading my cheeks and then pulling them a little.
Then, I felt his tongue was on my hole and I stopped thinking.
I couldn’t describe my first blowjob. No fucking way I can describe being rimmed and do it justice. The sensation of his muscular, wet tongue in an area that had never been touched like that just ... it made no sense. An asshole shouldn’t be allowed to feel that good. But it did. He licked, and he probed, soft and then hard, flat then pointed. Never the same, never the same pace.
He didn’t stop. His hands kept on my cheeks, pressing and rubbing, massaging, and flitting between my skin and the straps or the waistband. I think at some point my legs were shaking, and he asked if I was okay and I just moaned “yes!” and he kept going.
Then his hand went under me, through my legs and wrapped around my dick. It was either still wet from his mouth, or he’d wet his hand, I didn’t know or care, but he started to rub it. And twist. Up and down, gently rubbing and twisting. The pressure was varied in just the right way. A circuit formed between his tongue and hand, my ass and dick along for the amazing ride of whatever he was doing.
“Oh, fuck” I mumbled.
“Mm hm.”
“No, I’m ... I’m close, I’m really close. Again. I’m— I’m gonna ...”
He stopped. His mouth left me and I made a sound like a kicked puppy but it turned into the loudest moan I’d ever made because he somehow got under me, through my spread legs. His hands reached around through the straps to pull my ass closer, forcing my dick in his mouth and I, I just ...
I couldn’t hold back. He’d swallowed me down to the base again, and I shot. Over and over, I felt each pulse clench my ass tighter and my balls pump spurt after spurt of cum directly into his mouth. I could feel him swallow, massaging my dickhead, tongue on the underside of my cock, and my whole body was shaking. If it weren’t for the bench, I’d have been a blob of boneless ooze on the floor, twitching as my cum left me for his waiting mouth.
I know I stopped at some point, and it was still a while after that, after I was mostly soft, that he let go and I managed to pull out of his mouth.
“Sorry,” I said.
He was standing up, and I rotated so I was face-up on the bench.
“For what?” he asked.
“Cumming?”
“Why would you apologize for that?”
“I don’t know?”
“Dude, you’re fine.”
“Oh. Ok. Then ... wow.”
His eyebrows raised as he fished for his pants.
“Like ... seriously. Wow.”
He nodded to me, and he made a grimace as he bent over to take the jockstrap off. And to pull his pants on. “I’m getting a bit too old for those positions, but thank you. That’s the kind of review I want. Make sure to leave one like that on Yelp.” He winked as I looked mortified.
I finally got my breathing under control. His pants were already up, he was re-threading his belt. I admired his chest until he pulled his shirt on.
“Okay. So.” He put the strap against the wall and wrote on the white band with a heavy black marker two letters: TB. “Tony Barsotti,” he said, and held it out.
I took it. It was warm. I smelled it and then realized what I was doing, and he laughed, and I smelled it again because that’s what they do in the porn and now I knew why. It smelled like him, and it smelled like the sex we’d just had.
“That one’s yours now. On the house. And the one you’ve got on is yours, too, we’ll ring that one up.”
“What if I don’t ... like, what if I never do it? With anybody?”
“Then you’ve got a nice jockstrap and a weird story.” He shrugged. “There’s no curse. It’s underwear. It only goes anywhere if somebody wants it to.”
“And if I do it?”
“Then you tell the guy first, you offer to take it off, and if he says yes anyway, you put your initials under mine and pass it on.” He pointed at the band. “Right under. You don’t need to be creative about it, some guys get weird. It’s just a thing, though, so ... whatever floats your boat.”
He clapped his hands once. “Alright. Now that your problem’s taken care of, let’s fit that cup.”
It’s a strange thing to try on a hard cup with a man who has just done ... all that ... to you. But, he did, and I did. The smaller cup sat wrong and pinched at the bottom, and the second one didn’t.
“That’s the one. How’s it feel?”
“Like I’m wearing a salad bowl.”
“You’ll forget it’s there by the second period.”
“Wrestling doesn’t have periods.”
“Wrestling has periods.”
“Oh.”
I took the cup out but kept the jockstrap on. I looked for a place to put my underwear and he gestured to the trash can. I shrugged and put them there along with the packaging from the strap and cup. I got my shorts and shirt on.
He pushed the door open and I followed him back into all that white light. He walked the aisles the way he had before, pulling stuff and reading off the phone I’d given him. Headgear. Mouthguard, and he made me take the two-pack because I would lose one. Shoes, and he made me try both feet, and he pressed his thumb down by my big toe and said something about how everybody buys them a half size too big.
At the register he rang it all up and put the code in, and the number came down by a fifth, and then he took it down another 10% and winked at me. He bagged everything, put the strap with his initials on it on top, and he folded the top of the bag over.
“When do you start?”
“Tuesday.”
He nodded. “Go get folded in half, man. Enjoy it.” He paused. “All of it.”
I gulped, and I nodded as my eyes glanced quickly around; no one else was near the register.
Then, I was outside. I could feel the straps of my blue-banded jock cupping my ass. The residual sensation of his tongue on my hole. The band that was tighter than regular underwear felt comforting, and the pouch was soft as I walked. I kept looking around to see if anyone noticed, but no ... why would they? Tony had said that you could wear a jock under anything. And no one would notice.
Except the guy wearing it, of course. I noticed. I knew what I was wearing. And knowing what was sitting on top of the bag, I couldn’t wait to wear that one and see where it might take me.
Thanks for reading chapter 1! The rest of this story will be for paid subscribers only. If you liked this, there’s certainly more to cum, so please consider upgrading to a paid subscription for slightly more than a gallon of gas, per month.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.