🔞 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.
It sat in my drawer for two weeks. White, with a white band instead of my blue, and initials. Reminding me every time I opened that drawer that it had been real.
I let it sit there. Because ... I wanted that reminder, the reminder of Tony cupping me through the fabric, of his tongue on my hole, of cum flying in the fitting room.
It still smelled like him, even though I knew that was silly, but I swear it did.
So, I wore my jockstrap instead, the one I bought. Every practice.
It was weird at first. And so erotic. I pulled it up each time and looked at myself in the mirror, feeling the band across my hips, my cock and balls supported and hiding nothing else around them, and the way the straps hugged my cheeks. And, it was my secret. No one else on campus knew I was wearing a jockstrap under my shorts.
No one but the guys on the wrestling team. The first day, I showed up in the locker room and was so very glad I’d already put the strap on. It was like the start of every porn fantasy I had, guys from lean muscle to bulked like crazy just walking around in nothing but underwear, a towel, or nothing at all. Like, it was nothing at all.
Was this what I’d missed growing up, ‘cause of the asthma?
I pulled out my hem and waistband and slipped the hard cup in. I was straining against it, but the first day is not the day to be pegged.
Pegged as a queer.
Contained and smooth like a Ken doll, I took off my shorts and shirt and changed into the uniform. Grabbed the rest of my stuff and walked out with the other guys to practice.
I got paired with a guy named Bryce Nadeau. He was a junior, a year older than me, and had been on the team for two full years. I was 158 lbs, but he was 164 (”I fast if I get above 164.5”), and it was all muscle and then some. I kept reminding myself that singlets hid nothing as my eyes drank him in, but that hiding nothing went both ways as my dick continued to press against the hard cup. His shoulders and lats flexed his singlet in a way that I wasn’t sure was legal outside of adult entertainment, and I kept waiting for the rip that never came.
Despite my focus troubles, practice went fine. Bryce was nice, he seemed to genuinely want to help me, but he didn’t hesitate to knock me on my ass. And, it went that way for around two weeks.
Two weeks of wrestling in a jockstrap and singlet, and with Bryce, and two weeks of seeing “TB” on the jockstrap in my drawer, and lifting it up every morning (and evening) to smell.
I kept wearing the hard cup. Every time someone’s hard muscles pressed against me, I couldn’t help it. Though, I had yet to have anyone’s crotch in my face. Bryce’s arms on me were smooth and firm – so hard that I couldn’t get out from them at all, every time he pinned me. By Friday of week 2, though, I’d finally got him. Right before the end of practice, I’d been watching moves on ClickClock and shot out my leg. I pinned him.
After I let him up, he clapped me on the back and said, “There you go, Reese.” His hand stayed for just a moment longer than it needed, and the fingers squeezed in a way they shouldn’t have if it were just partner camaraderie. I looked to his face, my own dripping with sweat, his singlet dark in the center of his chest, and he smiled. “Let’s hit the showers.”
For the first time since the start of practice, I was very aware of the bands of the strap digging into my ass cheeks as I walked to the locker room.
I woke up the next Tuesday. I looked in the drawer again, and there was Tony’s jockstrap. This time, I pulled it out, didn’t inhale its scent, but I put it on instead. It cupped me differently, felt a little different, the band thicker, a bit looser. Still fit well, and I got instantly hard realizing that Tony’s hard, throbbing cock had been in there just ... three? four? ... weeks ago.
School was school, and practice was practice. Two hours with Bryce, focusing on my lack of moves – but I was learning! – and trying not to get pinned. Bryce warned me at the start: “It’s week 3, I’m gonna stop taking it easy on you.”
“You were taking it easy on me?!”
He smiled and nodded, and we crouched down. With the whistle, he came at me faster than ever before, shifted to avoid me, grabbed me around the middle, and I was down in maybe five seconds flat. For the first time, his crotch was against mine, and as he got up, he grinded just a little. He helped me stand, and we went again.
At the end of practice, water bottle in hand we went back to the locker room.
Getting out of a singlet isn’t graceful. I’d tried all sorts of ways to do it, but the combination of the spandex and sweat ... it’s just not. You work to peel the straps off your shoulders one at a time, shove the whole thing to your waist, and then you’re standing there with a band of material around your hips looking half eaten by some grey and gold shark and you’re walking around with sweaty torso skin and panting and hoping you’re not the worst looking, wrecked guy in the room. Everybody does it.
Nobody looks. Or, nobody says they look. But I’ll repeat: Everybody does it.
I peeled down to my waist, and then I shoved the rest down, and I stepped out of it.
And Bryce looked.
I was at my locker, he was two down, and I caught it in the little slice of vision you get when you’re possibly being busy with a gym bag. He was in his singlet still, straps off his shoulders, reaching around to pull it down, and he looked right at my waist, right at the white band. Then down. Then at the straps framing my butt when I turned to hang the singlet on the hook -- he was still looking.
Then he looked away. Really fast.
He finished stripping down to his own jock and got in the shower.
I did not. I could not have gotten in that shower right then, as long as I was wearing the hard cup. Which I was not: I wanted to feel the cotton that had touched Tony’s own cock, pressed and straining against mine.
I went home in it, and I lay on my bed and I thought about the exact moments where his eyes went down and then came back up and then went sideways.
I was going to wear it again to practice.
Thursday I wore mine. Because, I chickened out. And Friday.
But on Tuesday, I wore the white one again.
Practice ran long. Coach Ramos kept three of us back to work on a takedown he’d been trying to get into our heads all month, unsuccessfully, despite the other guys getting it fine. I just ... I dunno, I didn’t twist that way. Some guys stayed to watch, but by the time we were done the room had pretty much cleared out. It was me, Coach, Bryce, and a guy named Ollie.
Ollie just grabbed his stuff and left. Coach talked to me for a minute or two and then went to his office.
By the time I got to the locker room, I could hear the water running in the shower, and that was all.
I peeled down. Same as before, shoved the singlet off my hips and stepped out, the sweaty cotton still hugging my crotch.
A noise startled me, and I gasped.
“Okay, so, what’s the deal with that.”
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