College Jocks Brooks and Zane 08

Zane Whitaker: Age 18; dirty blonde hair; blue eyes; 5'9"; pitcher on the baseball team

Brooks Hayes: Age 20; brown hair; blue eyes; 6'2"; starting quarterback; junior

Ray Whitaker: Age 41; dirty blonde hair; blue eyes; 6'2"; muscular build

Adrian Lopez: Age 22; short dark hair; brown eyes; 5'8"; toned and lean muscles on slender build

Calvin Jang: Age 19; black hair; dark brown eyes; 6'0"; lean gym-bro build; very flexible

Chapter 8

Zane

All good things must come to an end, and by 1pm in the afternoon, my roommate Brody had to leave for his flight. He was flying to Florida to spend Thanksgiving break with his family at his grandparents' place. Once I finally showered off and lathered on my usual copious amounts of deodorant, Brody basically returned to normal. Seeing now what my pheromones did to both Coach Johnson and Brody, I was forced to accept by now, that there was something off about my scent that made men go feral. I promised myself that, going forward, I'd be even more vigilant about applying deodorant.

Silently, I wondered if this would just be a one-time thing. I hadn't forgotten that we'd both said it would be, before I gave him that first blowjob, right after Jess stormed out. Of course, I really hoped that we could continue this. I wished that Brody would feed me his cock every night for the rest of freshman year. But, too afraid to get my own hopes up, I told myself to accept the fact that Brody may never want to repeat this again. He was a straight man after all.

Brody gave me a bro-hug and peaced out to catch the Uber to the airport. Our dynamic felt surprisingly normal. It was almost like nothing had even happened between us last night, and I was glad of that. Glad that sex had not seemed to alter our relationship (I would later discover just how wrong I was).

Turns out Greyhound tickets get significantly cheaper if you're not trying to leave on the single most popular travel day of the entire year, so I stuck around one more night after most everyone else on campus cleared out. Brody flew home. By that evening, the dorm almost felt like the setting of a low-budget horror movie, empty hallways and all.

Brooks couldn't go home. Season was heating up, practice schedule getting crazier by the week, and there was no alternate reality where the starting quarterback got to just fly off to see his family (even for a couple days) in the middle of a playoff push. It was unfortunate, because Brooks was very close with his family, and Thanksgiving used to be his favorite holiday before college. He'd mentioned it a couple times, sort of resigned about it, but understood that this was the life he chose.

I had realized recently that Brooks was really the one who kept things going between us. He was the true driver of our friendship. Not exclusively (I texted him a fair amount too), but if I actually sat down and did the math, Brooks was initiating something like 70% of our hangouts. Brooks had, by any reasonable measure, many more demands on his time than I did during football season. And yet there he was, constantly finding room for me anyway.

That afternoon he found room for me again, this time showing up at my door holding a box neatly wrapped in blue paper.

"Hey, man. Happy early Thanksgiving or whatever," he said casually, shoving the box into my hands as I opened the door.

I paused for a second, holding it, kind of confused. Thanksgiving gifts weren't really a thing in my mind. Christmas, sure, of course. But Thanksgiving was usually just turkey and football and your uncle saying something regrettable at dinner. And gifting in general really wasn't a thing among my guy friends growing up, either. By high school, my bros and I barely remembered each other's birthdays, let alone surprise each other with wrapped presents. Nonetheless, I was very grateful for Brooks's thoughtful gesture.

"Thanks, man! But shit... I didn't get you anything in return," I said, feeling genuinely bad about it.

"Relax, it's not that deep." Brooks waved a hand that suggested he thought the whole concept of reciprocity was overrated. "You can just pay me back by giving me the answers to the next accounting P-Set. Consider this an investment in my GPA."

I tore into the present, and then gasped.

It was a Lego Star Wars set. Not just any set. It was the Death Star 10188 set. I'd been quietly stalking on secondhand sites for over a year without ever pulling the trigger because my wallet was tight. I hadn't been able to find a second hand set going for less than 700 bucks.

I hadn't told a single other person at State about my lifelong Lego Star Wars obsession. It wasn't exactly a secret, but also, I wasn't going around volunteering the fact that I, a grown-ass man, was still playing with Legos. The only person who knew was Brooks.

"Holy shit, Brooks. This had to have cost you an insane amount of money," I said, still staring at the box. "Let me Venmo you... I might not have enough cash in my account all at once, but I can at least cover half for now."

"It's fineee, don't worry about it. You know it annoys the heck out of me whenever you act prissy." Brooks plopped down on my bed and rested his hands behind his head, his biceps looking round and plump as he did so. "You gonna just stand there holding the box all day or are we building this thing?"

We built it. Three hours disappeared without either of us noticing, sitting cross-legged on my floor sorting tiny pieces into little piles. We got embarrassingly competitive about who could find specific bricks faster. At one point, we argued over the instruction manual like the fate of the world hung on it.

Once the completed Death Star sat proudly assembled on my desk, like a small monument to our friendship, we walked over to Brook's house and settled in by the fireplace with a couple of beers.

"Damn that hits different. First cold beer in months," Brooks said, holding his open beer can up and inspecting the label. "So glad we had a few of these left over from preseason. Don't let anyone know though. I'm cooked if Coach Johnson finds out."

I felt a fleeting discomfort at the mention of Coach Johnson's name. Obviously, Brooks had no idea I was well "acquainted" with his football coach. And I had no intention of sharing that part of my life with him. I forced myself to focus back on the actual topic at hand, which was the fact that Brooks was violating the no-alcohol rule he'd perfectly adhered to all season long. "You sure about this? I know how important next week's game is for the team."

He shrugged, not quite meeting my eyes. "Get off my ass. This is a special occasion. My man, I won't be seeing you for over a week. Let's just enjoy ourselves a little bit."

We ended up talking for hours in front of that fire. It's genuinely hard to convey how good it felt to just chat with a buddy about absolutely nothing and everything. Sports, politics, books, career plans, bucket list items, you name it. A solid 15 minutes were lost to a slightly heated debate over whether Baldurs Gate 3 was the greatest video game ever made, a position Brooks defended with the conviction of a man running for office.

It struck me that there was no other friend at State with whom I could freely talk to about all these topics with. In my mind, I had two camps of friends (setting Brooks aside). In one camp, I had my athlete friends (i. e. my baseball teammates and Brody). In the other, were my dorm neighbors, Emma and Lydia, who I've gotten to know pretty well.

My athlete friends were great, but conversations with them lived almost entirely in one lane: sports, girls, whatever happened at off-season practice that day, repeat. Emma and Lydia were the opposite problem: they were quirky, funny, and endlessly interesting, but allergic to sports talk in a way that made half my life invisible to them. So far, most of my friends in college fit neatly into one category or the other.

Brooks didn't. With Brooks I could just ramble on about whatever was actually in my head that day, no filter. He would do the same, and I'd listen with genuine interest. It felt like we'd learn something new about each other almost every day. Except for my sexuality, of course, there was nothing I couldn't talk to Brooks about.

By the time we called it a night, I was solidly tipsy. Not wasted, but loose enough around the edges that Brooks worried about me staying on my feet on the walk home. Brooks insisted I just crash in his room instead of walking back across a dark, empty campus by myself. I caved in when he threatened to walk with me all the way back to Harlan Hall to make sure I was safe.

I'd spent the night sleeping in Brooks's room a few times before, normally on the futon in the corner, my favorite piece of furniture. This time, though, in my intoxicated state, instead of veering toward the futon, I just walked straight and climbed into Brooks's actual bed like it was my own.

Brooks didn't say anything about it. He just flipped off the light, walked around to the other side, and got in next to me like it was the most normal thing in the world. As soon as that 6'2" stack of lean muscle plopped down next to me, I realized what I'd just done. And for a few anxious seconds, I waited for Brooks to kick me off. He didn't. He just settled in, covered us with the sheets and mumbled, "night, man."

I lay there in the dark next to my straight friend, hyper-aware of every single inch of space between us. I felt a strange, warm tingle in my brain stem. I don't know what exactly, but something felt so lovely about just sleeping next to Brooks.

As I began to hear Brooks's breathing slow to a cadence indicating the onset of sleep, I started to let my mind run free. I imagined, just for a minute, that we were something else. A couple. That we were two lovers who would lay in bed together like this every night until death do us part. It was a stupid, indulgent little fantasy, and once I realized that, I forced those thoughts away.

Next, it dawned on me that I hadn't thought about my roommate, Brody, a single time all evening. Not once. Not even a flicker, despite the fact that less than 24 hours earlier I had genuinely mind-blowing sex with the guy. Like, by far the best sex of my life. The kind of night that probably should have been living rent-free in my head for at least a week.

Instead my whole brain had been fully occupied by a Lego set, a fireplace chat, and the guy currently lying inches away from me, breathing slow and even.

I realized, lying there in the dark, that I actually liked this--just laying next to Brooks--more than the earth shattering orgasms I enjoyed last night, if that was even possible. Whatever had happened with Brody was fun, and hot, and something I definitely wasn't going to complain about if it happened again... but this, just existing quietly next to Brooks enjoying the sound of his calm breathing, was pure bliss.

At some point, Brooks rolled over in his sleep, and his arm came with him, landing heavy and warm across my chest.

I should have moved it. That would have been the normal thing to do. Instead, I just lay as still as I could, making sure I didn't make any movements that would wake him or cause him to roll back over. I just let his arm stay exactly where it was, and the strange sensation that had been warmly tickling my brain stem now spread throughout my entire body.

I eventually drifted to sleep like that, Brooks's arm draped over me, his breathing falling against the back of my neck, almost like soft, loving pats.

*****

BROOKS

Here's a fact about me that most of my friends don't know: I cannot handle it when people I love get in a car and drive somewhere far away.

I mean that literally. Not like, oh, I get a little nervous, hope they text when they arrive, normal-level caution. I mean intense, physical, hands-shaking anxiety that sits in my chest like a rock the second somebody I care about pulls out of a parking lot for a trip longer than an hour.

And now, my dear friend Zane was about to hop on a Greyhound bus for a long ride back to his home near Denver.

I wished so badly that I could drive him home myself. If I hadn't had a mandatory film session and a lift and about two hours of meetings with the offensive coordinator today, I would have thrown his bag in my truck and made the whole three-hour trip with him, no question, and then driven myself back to campus.

It would have eased my mind so much. Also, that would've given me the chance to see his hometown and meet his dad. I'd been hearing about Ray for months at that point ("my dad taught me to grip a bat this way.... my dad would find that hilarious"), so it would have been great to see the man who shaped Zane into the person he is today.

Instead I was standing in a parking lot at eight in the morning and helping Zane load his duffel into the belly of a Greyhound bus. And my palms were sweaty from nervousness. Zane could clearly detect something was way off about me. He asked me what's wrong.

"Bro, I have this anxiety thing," I sighed. "About people I care about going on long drives. Like, bad anxiety. Always have."

That last part was a lie. I hadn't always had it. I developed this anxiety at the end of high school, when my best friend, Jamie Hawkins, was hit and killed by a drunk driver. But, Zane still didn't know that Jamie was dead, and now was obviously not a good time to bring up a personal tragedy.

Of course, early on, Zane had asked about Jamie... asked about where he was now, which college did he attend. And I never liked talking about sad things, when he asked me so I had just told him, flatly and very coldly: "Jamie just isn't in my life anymore. Never will be, and I'm certain of that." I think that Zane could detect the bitterness in my voice when I spoke those words, and he probably clocked it was a very sore spot for me. He probably assumed that Jamie and I had a nasty friendship breakup or something. And Zane, being a pretty thoughtful and respectful guy, didn't ask about that sensitive subject again.

So when I told him that I had struggled my whole life with anxiety over loved ones getting on the road, I was a telling half-truth.

"It's okay, dude," Zane said. "Tens of thousands of people take Greyhounds every day. Nothin's gonna happen to me."

"I know that, Zane, I'm not a total dumbass.... it's just, I know it's not rational but somehow I still can't get my heart to stop pounding like a bitch."

"I'm sorry, man. Really. Is there anything at all, short of cancelling my trip, that could make you feel even a bit better?"

I paused for a second. There was something that might ease my worrying a bit. "Location sharing. I just want to be able to check the little dot every once in a while and confirm you haven't gotten yourself killed on I-25."

Zane laughed, but he pulled out his phone and set it up right there without a single objection, which meant more to me than I probably let on.

"Alright," he said, turning back to me. "I'll text you when I land. Well -- I mean, when the bus lands. Whatever buses do."

"Arrives. Buses arrive."

"Sure. That." He grinned, and I pulled him into a hug, quick and firm, a bro-hug.

Then as Zane turned to get in line, something in me just... reacted. I don't have a better word for it. I didn't want to let him go. I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around him again, from the back this time, and squeezed, harder than any hug I've probably ever given a guy in my life, and held it for a full five seconds before I forced myself to let go.

Zane looked back at me a little startled, and then smiled compassionately as though to try and help calm my anxiety.

"Text me," I said, stepping back like it hadn't happened. "I mean it."

"I will." He was still looking at me with a bit of concern in his eyes. "You good?"

"Yeah, man. I'm good. Go catch your bus."

He went. I stood in that parking lot longer than I needed to, watching the doors close behind him, and didn't move until the bus actually pulled out. I opened my Location app and could see that it was working. The cute little dot representing Zane Whitaker had started its long, hopefully uneventful crawl toward home.

*****

RAY

Nothing about my life, prior to the events of this year, had prepared me to be standing in a rented condo bedroom at 8:00 in the morning, in a wifebeater and grey sweatpants with no underwear, waiting for two professional pornstars to finish setting up a giant ring light.

The short version of how I got here is, I needed money. The long version starts about few months back, when I crunched the numbers on Zane's tuition, room and board, and every other line item a university dreams up to bleed a single dad dry, compared them to my income projections, and realized the math simply didn't math. My contracting business was going through a slow patch, and I was worried it wouldn't pick up in time before I needed to pay the next semesters tuition and expenses.

My neighbor Brian, who works as a firefighter, was the one who suggested stripping. I pretty much laughed in his face the first time. Then I did the math again, laughed a lot less, and three weeks later I was on a stage at The Buck learning choreography at 41 years old like I was having some sort of midlife crisis.

That's where I met Adrian and Calvin.

Adrian Lopez was one of the other dancers -- a little Latino guy with a somewhat-slender "twunk build, but with real definition on his muscles. His boyfriend, Calvin Jang, wasn't a dancer himself, but he showed up most nights to watch Adrian's sets. Calvin was tall and lean and clearly spent a lot of time at the gym. He was half-Korean and half-Scottish by his own description. Calvin looked a bit like "Shane" from the Heated Rivalry show I'd seen clips of.

Turned out that Adrian and Calvin ran a popular and successful OnlyFans page together. Their channel did numbers that made my strip club money look like a rounding error. They were both friendly guys and always stopped to chat with me after rehearsals and shows. Eventually, over beers and half kidding at first, they floated the idea of me doing a scene with them.

My first answer was no. Obviously. Stripping was one thing. Making a public sex tape was a hard fucking no, full stop.

Then they explained the anonymity setup... there was some AI software that blurred faces frame by frame, seamless, nothing recognizable left in the final product. They said I could have full review rights on my end before anything got posted anywhere. And then they named the number. $8,000. I sat with it for a couple days. Then I said yes, partly because I needed that $8,000 but also, I'll admit because the idea of having sex on camera secretly turned me on.

That's what brought me to this condo. I was going to shoot my first ever porn scene on the morning of the day my son was due home for college Thanksgiving break. Zane had texted me that his bus would arrive at around 1pm, so I had plenty of time before I was set to pick him up.

"You good, Ray?" Adrian asked, coming back into the room already stripped down to wearing nothing but a skimpy, blue jockstrap.

"Yeah. It's just really starting to hit me what I'm about to do..."

"Everybody's nervous their first time," Calvin said, adjusting something on the tripod without looking up. He had an easy, low voice. "You'll relax. Everyone does, like within minutes."

Adrian crossed the room and put a hand flat on my chest, steady, grounding, in a way that felt more like a coach settling down a rookie than anything sexual. "Seriously. We got you. Face blur's already tested and working, you'll see the footage before it goes anywhere, and if you wanna stop at any point, we stop. "

I appreciated that. I nodded, took a breath, and plopped down on the comfortable chair they set up for me.

"We're rolling."

I sat there a bit awkwardly in the white wifebeater and the grey sweatpants, and tried not to think about the red light. My eyes were focused on Adrian and Calvin. I liked that they were wearing matching blue jockstraps. I wanted to nail their cute bare asses that jiggled slightly when they walked.

Calvin walked around and stepped behind me. His hands landed on my shoulders and started working them. Meanwhile, Adrian dropped to the floor in front of me and took one of my feet in both hands. Both guys started massaging me.

I thought it was just going to be some fake, half-assed massage for the camera. It wasn't. Calvin's thumbs dug into the muscle along my neck and the knot there actually gave. Adrian pressed into the arch of my foot like he knew where exactly it was tight. I quickly felt the tension dissolving out of my body.

"Jesus," I said.

"Good?" Calvin asked.

"Yeah. That feels amazing."

A couple minutes in I felt my shoulders drop. The ring light stopped looking like a threat. My brain got quieter. I was relaxed.

Then Calvin's technique changed. He stopped kneading and started roaming. Fingers caressing up the sides of my neck. A palm along my jawline, tracing my stubble. He turned my face a little to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, then dragged his hand down my throat and over the front of the wifebeater.

The sexy young man groped my pec. Slowly with his strong hand. Then the other one, massing both sides of my chest at the same time.

I tented immediately. My cock stretched the grey sweatpants out in a thick line. There was no underwear to hide the huge bulge. Adrian looked up from my foot and smiled.

"Daddy," Adrian said. "Are we being good boys for you?"

Calvin's mouth was close to my ear. "Do you like it when we're so obedient?"

I swallowed. "Yeah. I like it."

"We'll do whatever you want," Adrian said. He squeezed my ankle. "Just tell us."

Their words did even more than the hands. Two sexy young men with sexy bodies... calling me daddy... worshipping my body. I was so hard my dick hurt.

Adrian lifted my foot and kissed the side of it. Then he licked a stripe up the arch. Holy shit. This guy was dirty.

I'm not sure if my feet were super clean or not, and felt a bit self-conscious. But Adrian seemed to love it. He put his mouth on my toes and sucked, slow, and seductive while looking up at me with his big, beautiful eyes, like a slut.

Calvin kept groping my chest through the shirt and watched his boyfriend do it.

"Fuckkkk," I said.

Adrian made a small sound against my foot and went back in. Kissing. Licking. Getting my smell on his tongue. Calvin's fingers found my nipple through the wifebeater and pinched.

I was in DILF heaven. Two athletic, beautiful pornstars. 19 and 22. On their knees and behind me like this serving me was their purpose. I felt a rush of heat go through my body.

Calvin's hands left my chest. He walked around in front of me, took the neck of the wifebeater in both fists, and ripped it straight down the middle.

The cotton gave with a cheap sound, and cool air hit my skin. The ruined shirt hung off my shoulders for a second, then he yanked it the rest of the way off and tossed it.

"Fuckkkk, Daddy," Calvin said. He looked at me with a greedy expression. "Look at you."

He moved to my side. His mouth found my nipple. He licked it, then sucked, and his hand groped the pec around it, squeezing the muscle. His other hand dragged down over my abs.

"These are so fucking sexy," he said against my skin. "Your sexy chest with a bit of hair in the middle..... And the abs oh my god.... All of it is so perfect."

He switched nipples. Same treatment. Tongue. Teeth, light. His palm stayed on my abs and rubbed like he was mapping them.

I was breathing harder. My cock jumped in the sweatpants.

Down on the floor Adrian got sloppier. He spit on my foot. A thick wad of it. Then he took my foot in both hands and smeared the spit wad across his own face, using the sole like a rag. Over his cheek. Across his mouth. Down his chin.

"Please," he said. He sounded wrecked already. "Slap me with it. Please, Daddy. Use your feet on me."

I did. I dragged the wet sole across the slutty twunk's face, then gave him a short slap with it. Not hard, but just firm enough to give him what he asked for. Adrian moaned like I'd done him a favor and pushed his face back into it.

"Again," he said. "Please."

I slapped him again with the other foot. He grinned through it, spit shining on his skin.

Then he hooked his fingers in my waistband and pulled the sweatpants down. I wasn't wearing underwear, so all eight inches of my throbbing cock came out heavy and hard and slapped up against my stomach.

Adrian kissed my ankle. Then my calf. Then the inside of my knee. He worked his way up my thigh slow, mouth open. And when he got to my cock he didn't suck on it just yet.

Adrian turned his head and rubbed his whole face against it. Brushing my cock up and down against his cheek. Like a cat. He even made a low little purr.

"Holy shit," I said, "You boys are so slutty, it's unbelievable."

Adrian proceeded to lick once from the base to the head and then took me in his mouth. He was good. Excellent, actually. Tight seal, no teeth, tongue working the underside like it had been paid to study it. He took me deep and held there and looked up, brown eyes wet already.

Calvin lifted his head off my chest. "Ughhhh, I want some of that," he said.

Adrian pulled off with a wet sound and Calvin dropped to his knees next to him. They were closer to the same height when they were on their knees like that, both of them in those cute blue jockstraps, both of them staring at my cock like they desperately needed it.

Calvin sucked me next. He had a different style. Hungrier. He went after the head and used his hand on the shaft and groaned around it like he couldn't help it. Adrian ducked in and licked my balls while Calvin had the cock. Then they switched. Then they switched again.

They were both so into it. It didn't even feel like performing. Just two very greedy boys with perfectly toned bodies on their hands and knees starving for cock. They kept making these small noises when the other one had it too long, like they were in love with the damn thing and didn't want to share.

Adrian popped off and went back to my balls, sucking one into his mouth, then the other. Calvin stroked me and licked the slit.

"I love Daddy's cock," Adrian muttered. "Fuck. I need it so bad. I wish you'd feed it to me every day"

"Well it's mine right now," Calvin said, and took me to the back of his throat.

Adrian shoved in anyway, licking what he could reach at the base around Calvin's lips. Calvin pulled off and hip-checked him with his shoulder, playfully.

"Back off, dude."

"I was here first."

They looked so sexy fighting over my cock while their own were hard in those cute little blue pouches. Fighting over who got to suck me, like two bratty sex kittens.

"Ughhh.... take it easy guys... we got some time...." I said. I rested my hands behind my back and leaned back against the chair, exposing my armpits. "If you start acting bratty, I might need to spank some sense into you..."

They laughed against my cock and went right back to it, trading off every few seconds, worshipping every inch they could get their mouths on.

Eventually, when Adrian had my cock deep in his throat, Calvin pushed himself up a bit. He put his tongue at the base of my stomach and licked a wet line straight up the middle of me. Over the abs. Through the hair on my chest. All the way to my collarbone. He left a trail of spit shining on my skin.

Then he turned his head and pushed his face into my armpit. He stopped. He sniffed once. Then again, longer.

"Mmmmmmm.... oh yes," he said. "Daddy. You smell so good."

I grinned deviously. "I didn't put deodorant on. I was rushing."

"Don't ever put it on," Calvin said.

He buried his face in there. Nose first. Then his mouth. He licked into the hair, slow, and made a sound I hadn't heard out of him yet. Not the porn sound. A real one. He huffed me like he needed it in his lungs.

His cock was tenting the blue jockstrap. Hard against my hip.

He pulled back just enough to talk, mouth wet, eyes gone.

"Adrian. Get up here. You gotta get a whiff of this."

Adrian came off my cock with a string of spit still connecting him to the head. "What?"

"His pit. Now."

Adrian stood and went to my other side. He lifted my arm and shoved his face in.

He went still the same way Calvin had.

"Oh my god." He inhaled again, greedy. "Daddy. What the fuck. That's--that's not normal."

"I know," I said. I didn't know what else to say.

They didn't ask for more explanation. They just worked.

Calvin on my left. Adrian on my right. Both of them huffing, licking, getting my smell all over their mouths. Adrian's tongue dragged through the hair. Calvin sucked at the skin underneath like he was trying to get more out of it. I could hear them breathing loudly.

My cock stood there untouched and dripping. I didn't care. The heat in my gut was coming from their faces in my arms.

I knew my natural scent had always turned men on... well, actually, starting when I was about 18 or 19. It started almost out of nowhere. My sweat was always normal before that and then one day it just... changed.

It went from regular locker-room smell to this strange, pleasant, salty musk, and suddenly the men around me acted different. Teammates. Guys at bars. A stranger standing too close in line. They'd go quiet, or they'd lean in, or they'd look at me like they wanted something and didn't know why.

The effect was a lot stronger back then. For a year, maybe two, I could walk into a room unwashed and immediately feel the shift. Men would go completely feral if they sniffed my pits.

Then, after a year or two it faded. Pretty dramatically. By the time I was in my early 20s, my pheromones became milder. The effect was always still there if I skipped deodorant and somebody got *right* up in it, like these two were doing now. But it was nowhere near as potent as when I was 19.

Women, however, never reacted. Not once. I even tested it intentionally a few times with girls who wanted to hookup with me. I'd ask them to sniff my pits and they'd just crinkle their nose and be like okay, you're being kind of weird, dude...

Not gonna lie, that first year I took advantage of my new apparently super sexy scent (to men). Men went absolutely crazy for me and I let them. I hooked up with a shit ton of guys. Always as a top. I've never wanted it the other way.

All but one of the men would tell me the same thing. That I smelled unreal. That they couldn't think straight. That they wanted to hookup with me again and again.

The one who didn't was a slightly older biologist named Max Arnoldson. We were in his apartment. I was half out of my shirt and he wasn't doing any of it. No sniffing. No comment. Just a normal look on his face, like I was any other man.

I told him that he was the only guy I've hooked up with who hadn't gone crazy over how I smelled.

I remember that Max's eyes widened when I told him about my scent situation. Then he got serious.

He said he'd had the same thing. When he turned 21 his scent changed the same way. Men lost their minds over it. Then after a while, it faded on him.

Max's theory was that it was some genetic variation. A variant gene expression that a few people had, giving them a special pheromone that arouses men. And that the ones who had the gene themselves would be immune to. That was why he could stand there and not care.

I believed him. I'd never been particularly attracted to my own smell. It was just my body. I lived in it.

Anyways, I digress. Back to the moment with Adrian and Calvin. As I sat there, in the present, at age 41, I knew that, with as turned on as Adrian and Calvin were getting over my scent, I've seen people get way more freaky. This was mild play compared to how feral men would get over me twenty years ago.

"Alright, ya' dirty fricken' sluts," I said. "You've gotten enough of Daddy's pits for now."

Adrian came off my pit immediately. His mouth was wet with his own spit mixed with my sweat. His eyes were still glassy and filled with lust.

Calvin didn't budge. He kept his face buried in my other arm and licked again, being bratty on purpose.

"Calvin."

He made a little noise and stayed there.

I hooked my arms under him and lifted. He was 6'0" and lean, not light, but I had him. I sat back down on the chair and dumped him over my lap, jockstrap up, ass out.

"Daddy...?" Calvin looked at me with wide eyes.

I spanked him. A sharp crack across one cheek, then the other. He jerked and laughed and then the laugh turned into a moan.

"You gonna be a good boy?" I asked.

"Maybe..." He winked at me. Saucy little fucker.

I spanked him again. Harder. Then again. His ass went pink under my hand. He kicked once, not really trying to get away.

"Okay, okay," he said, breathless. "I'll be good. I'll be good, Daddy. I'll be your obedient little fuck slut."

I kept him there one more second with my palm on the heat I'd put on his skin. My cock was so hard it was stupid. The original plan was to do oral sex only. That was what we'd talked about. The agreed upon plan was: sit on the chair, let them suck me until I blew my load, done. That plan was gone.

"Change of plans," I said. I let him up enough to look at both of them. "I'm gonna fuck you, Calvin."

They both looked excited. "We set the tripods for the chair. BJ angles. I need a few minutes to move everything if we're doing anal."

"No." I stood and hauled Calvin up with me. "I'm too FUCKING riled up. I'm railing your boyfriend right now."

I picked Calvin up and threw him onto his back on the bed. He bounced once and stayed there, legs already starting to open, the blue jockstrap still on. Adrian swore under his breath, grabbed one of the cameras off the tripod, and came in close with it on his shoulder.

"Fine," Adrian said. "I'll shoot it handheld."

I ripped the jockstrap so hard it snapped. As the fabric fell off, Calvin's hard cock slipped out. It looked to be a nice seven to seven-and-a-half inches long, and decently thick. Smaller than me, but not bad. I grabbed the lube off the nightstand and slicked my cock. Calvin watched me do it, chest rising fast.

I lifted Calvin's legs. The dude was flexible as hell. I pushed them out and back and he just went with it, wider, wider, until he was almost in a split, knees out toward the walls. I could see hole right there, pink and tight.

Adrian filmed from the side, standing close.

I lined myself up and pushed in slow.

Calvin's mouth fell open. "Ohhhhhhhhhh..... Yesss..... Daddy. YES!"

I gave him the head. Then pushed in some more. He was hot and tight and he took it, moaning loud.

"Yesssss," he said. "Give it to me. Please. Please, Daddy. I need you... FUCK!"

I slid deeper. Inch by inch. His legs stayed wide. I bottomed out and held there, looking down at him, then at Adrian behind the camera. He looked so aroused by seeing me fuck his boyfriend.

Calvin clawed at my arms. "Don't stop," he said. "Please... please don't stop."

I fucked him like that until his voice broke.

Adrian stepped in closer, camera in one hand, and pulled his blue jockstrap down with the other. He was hard. About six inches long. He put it to Calvin's mouth.

"Open up, babe," Adrian said.

Calvin opened. Adrian fed his cock to him and kept filming, the lens right up in our faces while his boyfriend sucked him. I didn't stop thrusting. Calvin moaned around his boyfriend's cock and drooled down his chin.

It didn't take long. Two minutes, maybe less. Adrian's hips stuttered.

"Oh shit, I'm about to cum... Ughhh, here it comes. Okay.... ahhhhh.... Fuckkk--take it--"

He came in Calvin's mouth. Calvin swallowed what he could and let the rest spill out. Adrian pulled back, breathing hard, and kept the camera up.

I pulled out and stood Calvin up. I walked him to the wall and put his back against it. Then I hooked his (very limber) left leg, lifted it, and slung it over my shoulder. He was flexible enough that it sat there easy. Initially, I had to hold him tight to make sure he didn't slip. One arm around his back. The other on his thigh.

I pushed back in and fucked him standing, face to face.

Calvin's head hit the wall. "Daddy... DADDDY! Oh my god!"

His noisy whimpers were making me go crazy. I placed a hand on his throat. Not hard. Just enough to hold him there. I squeezed lightly, gently choking him while I drove up into him. His eyes rolled.

"You like that?" I asked.

"Yes. Oh fuck yees. Punish me.... Daddy... I'm a naughty slut who needs to be disciplined."

Calvin spat in my face. It landed on my cheek. Warm spit oozed down along my jaw. What a fucking brat.

I grabbed Calvin's chin and squeezed until his mouth opened.

"Naughty boy," I said.

I slapped his cheeks a few times. Then I spat back on him, on his mouth, on his cheek. He moaned like that was the whole point.

I fucked him hard and fast after that. The wall thudded. His lifted leg shook on my shoulder. I kept my hand at his throat and didn't let him look away.

Calvin surprised me when he started cumming untouched.

"UGHHHHHH..... uh oh... ugh... this feels.... so good... oh my gosh, it's happening.... AHHH.... I-I... oh I can't fucking control myself!" he gasped. "Daddy--DADDY!!!" Calvin's cock jerked between us and painted his own torso with cum: thick stripes up his stomach. Some of the jizz hit my abs.

Once Calvin's cock stopped spurting, I pulled him off the wall and threw him face-down on the bed. I yanked his hips up and shoved back in doggy, in a single thrust that made him squirm. He was sloppy now. Open. I held his waist and fucked him until I felt it building, low and inevitable. I pulled out.

"On your back. Mouth open."

He flipped over fast. Opened wide and stuck his tongue out. He was looking up at me with such desire in his eyes. Like he needed my cum so bad.

I stroked myself twice and came in his mouth. "FUCKING TAKE MY LOAD!!! Grrr.. GRAHHH!!!! HOT DAMN!!! UHHHHHH.... ughhhh.... mmmmm..... oh shit... ugh, uh.... mmmm...."

The first couple of pulses hit his tongue. Then the rest shot over his forehead, nose and cheek. He kept the cum on his outstretched tongue until I was done, then swallowed, with some of it still shining on his lip. He couldn't open his eyes because it was covered in the cum dripping from his forehead.

I stood over him, catching my breath, cum on my abs that wasn't mine.

Adrian lowered the camera. "Jesus Christ, Ray," he said.

After that, Adrian asked if I could go for another round and maybe fuck Adrian as well. But I saw that it was almost 10:30 and I wanted to get home to freshen up and grab a quick snack before leaving to pick up Zane from the Greyhound station at around 12:30. I sauntered over to my phone and checked it.

A text from Zane. Shit. It turns out his Greyhound bus was arriving around 11, not at 1. He'd left out a digit in his earlier text. I replied back that it was no problem, but he might have to wait at the station for 15 minutes or so.

I quickly threw my clothes on-- my actual clothes, not the sweatpants and (now torn up) wife beater they gave me for the shoot--and drove home. When I got back, I quickly slathered some deodorant onto my pits and then spritzed a bit of cologne on my chest to cover up any hit of spit when Adrian and Calvin were licking me all over.

*****

ZANE

Three hours on a Greyhound bus made me appreciate a front door in a way I hadn't thought possible. My back ached a bit from spending all morning sitting in those hard seats.

I'd mistakenly texted my dad "1 o'clock" as the pickup time, instead of "11 o'clock" as I meant to. And it turned out he had an appointment that might go slightly past 11, so I ultimately decided to just catch an Uber back rather than have to wait at the station. I texted my dad, and he was okay with whatever I preferred. The driver was a very nice woman, but she would break and accelerate super quick, which made me slightly car sick.

I let myself in, dropped my duffel bag in the entryway, and kicked my shoes off one at a time without bothering to untie them, which is a habit that used to drive my dad crazy and apparently still does. I heard him before I saw him.

Footsteps on the stairs, then my old man himself coming around the corner, smiling warmly. "You little rascal. What'd I tell you about stretchin' out your damn shoes like that."

My dad's 41, but he doesn't really look it. He's got dirty blonde hair that's just starting to gray at the temples, and blue eyes the same shade as mine. People always said we look a lot alike. But I just wish I had his size. My dad is 6'2" and considerably more muscular than me. He runs a contracting business, a hypermasculine industry where guys apparently respected you more if you were built, so my dad always prioritized lifting weights regularly.

"Therrrre's my boy," he said as he got closer, arms already opening.

I walked straight into them, and he pulled me in tight, one hand coming up to clap the back of my head the way he'd done since I was about six years old and never grew out of. I let myself sink into it for a second. My dad's firm hugs had always had a nice, grounding weight to them that gave me a lot of comfort.

I detected that familiar warm, masculine scent that I associated with him and missed. I also detected a hint of cologne, warm and woody. I noticed that with mild curiosity. My dad wasn't the type to wear cologne on a random Wednesday. Something, or someone, had motivated him to put in some effort recently, and I wondered if maybe he was on a date this morning.

"Missed you," I said into his shoulder, and meant it more strongly than the simple two words really covered. I never liked to get too mushy gushy with my dad, but he always knew how much I loved him.

"Missed you too, buddy." He gave me one more solid squeeze before pulling back, hands still on my shoulders, looking me over like he was checking for damage. "Good to see you back still all in one piece. Happy to see that college hasn't killed you yet."

"Jury's still out."

He laughed and let go. Then very quickly, he shifted gears.

"So," he said, "funny thing. Pool deck's got some rot in a couple of the boards out back. Been meaning to get to it for a while now." A pause. "Figured... since you're home for a whole week and all, you could give me a hand"

"Seriously, Dad, I've been off the bus for like 90 seconds."

"I know, I know. Wasn't gonna bring it up till a bit later." He was already heading toward the kitchen, entirely unbothered by his own timing. "But since we're talking, and it was just on my mind..."

"We weren't exactly even chatting. You were hugging me and then immediately assigning me labor." I laughed, but knew that, of course I would help him. In fact, I secretly actually loved working with my dad.

"Hey, I've always been known for my efficient parenting." He grabbed two glasses down from the cabinet. "Welcome home, by the way."

That's my dad. Classic Ray Whitaker. He annoys the heck out of me 50% of the time, but I love the guy.

*****

ZANE - LATER THAT WEEK

Thanksgiving day itself turned out to be exactly the kind of fun family chaos I'd been missing while away at college.

My dad's sister Susan came over with her husband Owen and their 11-year-old twins, Danny and Celeste. Danny and Celeste were great athletes--he played baseball and she, softball. My cousins kind of idolized me their entire lives and I loved the heck out of them too.

Dinner was loud and a tad too warm from the oven running all afternoon. By the time we'd all eaten so much that the mere sight of food would cause nausea, the whole family migrated to the living room to enjoy the vastly more important half of Thanksgiving for my family: football.

Everyone in that house was a fan, no exceptions. And today's slate had an obvious main event for us: BYU against Denbury State, my school, live on the big TV, with Aunt Susan loudly reminding everyone at least twice that she'd bet big money on us.

It hadn't been the season anyone expected, honestly. Denbury State had made the playoffs last year and started this season ranked number one in the Big 13. The preseason hype had every sports outlet in the region talking about a real possibility of a title run. Then the injuries started. A whole rash of them chewed through most of the starting offensive line by October along with a couple of key skill guys. The team that had looked unstoppable in August had spent the back half of the season looking like a diminished shadow of itself. Brooks had lamented the situation frequently, usually in the careful, deflated tone of a guy trying not to sound as stressed about it as he actually was.

Watching from the couch with my phone balanced on my knee, I found myself paying attention to the game in a way I never really had before college -- not just tracking the score, but tracking Brooks specifically. I felt almost like a proud parent, tracking his own child during a group performance.

At halftime, the broadcast cut to the sideline, players pulling helmets off, toweling down, catching their breath. And there he was: Brooks Hayes, helmet off, brown hair matted with sweat, plastered flat in some places and sticking straight up in others. His entire gorgeous face was red from exertion. Holy shit, this man is sexy, I thought to myself.

It wasn't just the look of him, either. It was the whole "in-the-zone" mode he shifted into during games. Brooks was shown barking something at a lineman, jabbing a finger toward the field, like an admiral or commander. It was a bit of a contrast to the other side of Brooks I actually knew. I'd gotten used to the gregarious, sweet, golden-retriever side of Brooks. Watching this alpha-male version of Brooks snap out instructions with his jaw clenched tight and his eyes locked in fiercely was doing something to me I hadn't been prepared to feel sitting with my family on Thanksgiving.

The game stayed tight the whole way through. Denbury State clawed out a 24-21 lead early in the fourth quarter, a very fragile lead given how banged up our offensive line was. Every person in that living room was *sat*. I'm pretty sure none of us even leaned back on the couch once in the past 20 minutes, we were all on the edge of our seats. My dad had both fists clenched on his knees like he was the one about to take a hit. Celeste was reciting down-and-distance out loud after every play.

With just under six minutes left, Brooks dropped back to pass on third down, and BYU's front line got through clean. It was a blitz nobody picked up, and one guy came in completely unblocked off the edge. Brooks never even saw it coming. The hit landed square, drove him straight into the turf, his shoulder taking the brunt of it at an angle that made my stomach drop before my brain had even finished processing what I'd just watched.

He didn't get up right away.

The whole living room went quiet at once. The camera zoomed in on the quarterback's collapsed body... then cut to the trainers jogging out.... then eventually back to Brooks still down on one knee, helmet off, face contorted with pain.

Eventually he did get up, walking off under his own power with a trainer on either side of him. One arm was cradled tight against his chest. The broadcast cut to a replay from three different angles.

"If this is what it looks like," one of the commentators stated, "Hayes could be done for the season."