RyanMI
underwear / fundoshi / jockstraps / loincloths
What a game!
The Ice Pirates marched off the ice exhausted, elated, and bodies steaming after a grueling — and thrilling — 2-to-1 victory against our friendly rivals The Fighting Cocks. Gloved hands slapped padded shoulders as we spit out our mouthguards, unlaced our skates, and peeled off our sweat-drenched equipment.
The locker room was filled with crude remarks, slamming lockers, talk of cold beers, and a mist of perspiration as elbow and knee pads were chucked into hockey bags and flushed athletic bodies emerged from underneath their armor. Plans to celebrate at Malloy’s Bar were proposed and enthusiastically seconded. First, it was shower time.
About half the guys wore their jocks into the showers to lather up and rinse out, the rest tossed their soaked straps in with the rest of their equipment and strode into the tiled room cocks swinging. The Ice Pirates were in high spirits. Towels were snapped, asses were slapped, cups were snatched and tossed around while the red-faced cup owners desperately tried to recapture them.
It had been a great, close game. Almost brutally physical and balls-to-the-wall, but sportsmanlike and good natured. The Fighting Cocks played their hardest but our defensive line was locked in: the Pirate’s goalie Carlos has magic hands and Kyle and I kept the crease clear of Cocks. We call ourselves “the Ultimate Cock Blockers.” I play right D, Kyle plays left. Carlos is “the dick in the middle.” We joke that it all had to do with the direction of our curves
Meanwhile back in the showers a sea of glistening wet man flesh soaped up and sloshed about while remarks got even cruder.
“Hey Ry,” said Kyle, “want to stop over and burn one?” He knew the other guys were strictly beer drinkers: this was how we camouflaged our frequent hook-ups, hidden in plain view. I cracked a grin. “Sure! We can catch up with you guys after we get blazed.”
“Yeah, we can smoke a couple fatties and then come toast our fellow victors,” agreed Kyle, leaning in close and saying softly so only I could hear “after we choke on each other’s cocks for a while.” His lips barely moved when he whispered but my eyes still darted around the room to see if any of the guys had overheard. No sign of it, just shiny asses and wet hairy chests. Dammit, my dick can’t keep a secret! Instant semi. Carlos leered at me but simply said “fuckin’ stoners.”
After jostling around in the shower a bit more, we each pulled on jeans and shirts and scattered to our separate cars, hockey bags and sticks slung over our shoulders. It was a short drive on the expressway to Kyle’s place, a compact apartment building set back behind a row of tall pines.
Kyle had beat me there, and greeted me at the door in a fresh jockstrap and t-shirt. Nothing else. I whisked inside his unit, pulled the door shut behind me, and immediately shucked my shoes and pants. We could light up later, right now our surging erections would only settle for one thing.
“Jesus you were on fire tonight,” Kyle said to me, pulling his straining pouch to one side and letting his raging boner spring free. He ran one palm down my chest, over my belly. My FTL briefs hit the floor and I stood there in just my t-shirt and a smile.
“Thanks man, you had some pretty great moments of your own, like that hip check of Koslow behind the net — laid him right out.” Kyle moved in front of me, taking a thick man-member in each hand and kissing our cock-slits together until a dewy spiderweb of precum connected us. He used his fingertip to spread the dick dew around our flaring heads.
“Yeah did you see the look on his face? It was priceless.” I was leaking copiously now, as Kyle began slowly pumping my shaft with his right hand. He knew every ridge and vein of me by now, and he knew just what would make me purr.
Soft tingles started to build in my perineum and travel up both my spine and my throbbing love scepter. He was magic. His hand could bring me repeatedly to the point of inevitability, then subtly change stroke to keep me from firing cum bullets all over. Instead he kept me quivering and pre-orgasmic, dancing right up to the cliff-edge of mind-erasing pleasure spasms before bringing me back down again and again.
“Okay enough with the foreplay,” he murmured in a husky voice. “Let’s have a snack.” I followed him into his bedroom like an eager puppy. We pulled each other’s t-shirts over our heads and sprawled out on the bed head-to-toe in opposite directions. Face to face with fragrant jocked crotch.
(To be continued)
The Ice Pirates marched off the ice exhausted, elated, and bodies steaming after a grueling — and thrilling — 2-to-1 victory against our friendly rivals The Fighting Cocks. Gloved hands slapped padded shoulders as we spit out our mouthguards, unlaced our skates, and peeled off our sweat-drenched equipment.
The locker room was filled with crude remarks, slamming lockers, talk of cold beers, and a mist of perspiration as elbow and knee pads were chucked into hockey bags and flushed athletic bodies emerged from underneath their armor. Plans to celebrate at Malloy’s Bar were proposed and enthusiastically seconded. First, it was shower time.
About half the guys wore their jocks into the showers to lather up and rinse out, the rest tossed their soaked straps in with the rest of their equipment and strode into the tiled room cocks swinging. The Ice Pirates were in high spirits. Towels were snapped, asses were slapped, cups were snatched and tossed around while the red-faced cup owners desperately tried to recapture them.
It had been a great, close game. Almost brutally physical and balls-to-the-wall, but sportsmanlike and good natured. The Fighting Cocks played their hardest but our defensive line was locked in: the Pirate’s goalie Carlos has magic hands and Kyle and I kept the crease clear of Cocks. We call ourselves “the Ultimate Cock Blockers.” I play right D, Kyle plays left. Carlos is “the dick in the middle.” We joke that it all had to do with the direction of our curves
Meanwhile back in the showers a sea of glistening wet man flesh soaped up and sloshed about while remarks got even cruder.
“Hey Ry,” said Kyle, “want to stop over and burn one?” He knew the other guys were strictly beer drinkers: this was how we camouflaged our frequent hook-ups, hidden in plain view. I cracked a grin. “Sure! We can catch up with you guys after we get blazed.”
“Yeah, we can smoke a couple fatties and then come toast our fellow victors,” agreed Kyle, leaning in close and saying softly so only I could hear “after we choke on each other’s cocks for a while.” His lips barely moved when he whispered but my eyes still darted around the room to see if any of the guys had overheard. No sign of it, just shiny asses and wet hairy chests. Dammit, my dick can’t keep a secret! Instant semi. Carlos leered at me but simply said “fuckin’ stoners.”
After jostling around in the shower a bit more, we each pulled on jeans and shirts and scattered to our separate cars, hockey bags and sticks slung over our shoulders. It was a short drive on the expressway to Kyle’s place, a compact apartment building set back behind a row of tall pines.
Kyle had beat me there, and greeted me at the door in a fresh jockstrap and t-shirt. Nothing else. I whisked inside his unit, pulled the door shut behind me, and immediately shucked my shoes and pants. We could light up later, right now our surging erections would only settle for one thing.
“Jesus you were on fire tonight,” Kyle said to me, pulling his straining pouch to one side and letting his raging boner spring free. He ran one palm down my chest, over my belly. My FTL briefs hit the floor and I stood there in just my t-shirt and a smile.
“Thanks man, you had some pretty great moments of your own, like that hip check of Koslow behind the net — laid him right out.” Kyle moved in front of me, taking a thick man-member in each hand and kissing our cock-slits together until a dewy spiderweb of precum connected us. He used his fingertip to spread the dick dew around our flaring heads.
“Yeah did you see the look on his face? It was priceless.” I was leaking copiously now, as Kyle began slowly pumping my shaft with his right hand. He knew every ridge and vein of me by now, and he knew just what would make me purr.
Soft tingles started to build in my perineum and travel up both my spine and my throbbing love scepter. He was magic. His hand could bring me repeatedly to the point of inevitability, then subtly change stroke to keep me from firing cum bullets all over. Instead he kept me quivering and pre-orgasmic, dancing right up to the cliff-edge of mind-erasing pleasure spasms before bringing me back down again and again.
“Okay enough with the foreplay,” he murmured in a husky voice. “Let’s have a snack.” I followed him into his bedroom like an eager puppy. We pulled each other’s t-shirts over our heads and sprawled out on the bed head-to-toe in opposite directions. Face to face with fragrant jocked crotch.
(To be continued)
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