The four jocks: Study group

by BRK

Timothy’s study group needs a break, so Tomas pulls out a game—little knowing what changes it would mean for all of them.

The Four Jocks, #9 6,468 words Added Dec 2014 19k views 4.6 stars (5 votes)

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“Ugh, I just can’t think straight anymore,” Vincent said, slumping back in his chair and shoving his textbook and notes away from him toward the center of the small, heavy, scarred-wood circular table their study group had commandeered hours before in the corner of the dorm common room. He scratched his bare, generously muscled, and completely hairless chest unconsciously as he glowered at the thick tome and pages of elaborate notes in front of him as if it had all suddenly turned to cuneiform just to spite him.

Timothy snickered at his swim team buddy. “Like you ever could,” he said playfully, punching Vincent in his brawny upper arm. Teasing his big, blond best friend about his supposed latent gayness was one of Timothy’s favorite pastimes—mostly, he knew with a lurch of his big sausage cock in his jeans, because he hoped it would pay off sooner or later. Vincent’s reversion to a more slovenly posture pushed his knees further under the little table, pushing them into full and firm contact with Timothy’s right leg, though it was anyone’s guess whether the contact was anything other than innocent.

Timothy’s sausage cock gave another lurch as a flutter passed up his guts and right into his chest. He took a nervous swig from his bottle of Buzz Beer (which the group swore by these days because it actually seemed to help them study, a conclusion justified by actual experiments involving study sessions conducted with and without the local microbrew) and wondered for the thousandth time whether Vincent could ever really go for someone who was shorter and wirier and who, in general, wasn’t as big and blond and handsome as Vincent himself.

Though he was pretty damn buff and, in fact, better defined than Vincent these days, now that he’d started really pushing himself at the gym to keep up with his buddy and his disgustingly E-Z-grow-muscles, Timothy wasn’t as confident as Vincent and, unlike his buddy, normally wore a shirt—in this case a loose black tee that just said COLLEGE on it. It was a hand-me-down from his older brother and was supposed to be a reference to some really famous movie, but Timothy just liked the shirt, and black tended to go well with his thick black hair, pale skin, and bright hazel eyes.

Vincent snorted as Timothy’s remark but let it pass, as he usually did with Timothy’s teasings. “I’m serious! If I read another paragraph about Cartesian dualism—” he groused, keeping, Timothy noticed, his knee firmly against Timothy’s right leg. This also meant that Timothy was now being pleasantly leg-mashed under the little table from both directions, since Tomás, the extremely extroverted Brazilian soccer prodigy, had been pressing his perfectly developed thigh against Timothy’s from the left side for most of the night. After nearly a whole semester taking classes with him, studying together, and living down the hall, he still wasn’t sure if Tomás’s constant handsy-ness (and legsy-ness and footsy-ness and so on) around him meant Tomás was gay and flirty—or just really, really friendly.

Timothy glanced to his left to where Tomás sat, opposite Vincent’s corner seat. Tomás, as usual, was wearing a slightly stretchy yellow and green Brazilian soccer top. He had dozens of them, all slightly different, and all of them highlighting the lovely curves and bulges of his well-muscled torso. His was, of course, not nearly as thickly built as Vincent’s but it seemed perfectly designed for any sport—he swam like a fish but was too busy with nonstop soccer to join the team, he said—and, like Vincent’s, his sculpted muscles seemed at times like a gift of the gods rather than the product of hard work fighting against a very fast metabolism and generally unhelpful genetics. Tomás’s hands, meanwhile, were under the table, coursing gently up and down his godly thighs through the knee-length shorts he wore in all weather, even now that it had gotten into the relative coolness of a Florida December. The pinky of his right hand was trailing along Timothy’s thigh as Tomás appreciated himself. Was he doing it on purpose?

Tomás caught Timothy’s stare and he smiled brightly at him, looking like the picture of pure, friendly (and cute) guilelessness even as he continued sliding his finger against Timothy’s leg. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Timothy looked quickly around the room behind him, but it had gotten so late that they were actually the only ones left in the dormitory common room-slash-study area. There was nothing to be seen but the other five of the little round tables, with a few dozen more of the room’s surprisingly comfortable heavy wooden chairs strewn haphazardly around them. A few days closer to exam week and the room might be packed even at this hour, but evidently they were the only guys with enough commitment to keep studying on a warm Friday night all the way in to the very early hours of Saturday morning.

“But it’s so practical,” Maksym observed dryly, responding to Vincent’s comment. “Useful in everyday life. I mean,” he went on, gesturing to himself with one long-fingered hand as he sprawled in the chair opposite Timothy, “don’t you want to know the true nature of the relationship between this body”—he moved his hand up to tap his temple—”and this mind?”

Timothy looked Maksym over, pretending to consider his question. Maksym wasn’t exactly muscular like Vincent or Tomás or even the recently buffed-up Timothy; he was just gorgeous. He ranged tall and tight and limber—and effortlessly attractive in the most literal sense, all the way down the extra-long and languid journey from his head of long, loose platinum blond hair shrouding bright gray eyes and a steel-trap brain (or was it a steel-trap mind? Timothy wondered wryly) to his long legs and size-15 feet. He also knew how attractive he was, though his confidence expressed itself not in arrogant cockiness but in a serene coolness, shrewd sarcasm, and a knack for being the most collected person in any gathering. He tended to dress in nice silky shirts and dark slacks, always looking as if he had just taken off his jacket and tie, and Timothy had often wondered if he had to get his shirts and trousers custom-made or if they came in extra-extra tall sizes.

Timothy was pretty sure Maksym was straight, more or less, but he also obviously liked to be appreciated for his beauty no matter who was doing the appreciating. His sprawling, insidious magnetism got under Timothy’s skin, especially when he was feeling turned on already, usually leading to an urge toward more overt flirtatious banter than he engaged in with Vincent. He couldn’t bring himself to come out with it, though. “How about we investigate the relationship between that body and this body,” Timothy wanted to say, with a gesture toward himself that echoed Maksym’s. Maksym, as if he guessed what Timothy wanted to say but couldn’t, kept his saucy grin aimed right at Timothy and added a wink.

Timothy was becoming aware he wasn’t just turned on, he was horny as hell. He usually was pretty horny after spending any amount of time with these guys (especially if studying and or their favorite brand of beer was involved). But tonight it was more intense than usual, and, looking around at the others, he got the feeling that they were pretty ramped up, too. Vincent stirred restlessly to his right, though his knee stayed pressed hard against Timothy’s leg. “We need to take a break for an hour or so,” Vincent said, “but I’m too awake to go up and crash.”

“Yeah, but what are we going to do for an hour instead?” Maksym asked softly. “Stare at each other?” He said this looking pointedly right at Timothy, and Timothy realized abruptly he actually hadn’t stopped looking at Maksym for a minute or two now. Despite his bravado he felt himself blushing. Jeez, first Vincent, then Tomás and now Maksym! Was he really this into all of his friends?

Looking away, he went to take a compulsive pull of beer, but his bottle was empty. He bent to get another one from the cooler on the floor between, dropping the empty into the paper sack next to it with a loud clang of glass meeting glass. As he brought his hand up with the new bottle he accidentally brushed his hand against Vincent’s calves, but neither of them acknowledged the touch and Timothy quickly twisted the top of his bottle of Buzz and took a deep gulp of the cool, bitter brew. His fat cock throbbed heavily against his hip, almost completely hard now and demanding freedom from its sartorial constraints. How long had his cock been this hard and this angry?

“I know!” Tomás exclaimed unexpectedly, leaning forward into their tight circle with an expression of bright-eyed excitement. Under the table, his thick thigh quivered and flexed against Timothy’s. They all looked at him expectantly, but Tomás tended to act instead of using words, and he just dove into a tall, nondescript brown paper shopping bag that had stood unexplained next to his bookbag all night. A second later he pulled out an old wooden box, its sky blue gone pale over its long years but still intact. On its plain, smooth lid “THE GAME” had at some point been stenciled in small, worn, silver leaf lettering. The other three looked at it a second, and then back at Tomás.

“My roommate’s cousin in New York—you know, the model?—he sent this to my roommate,” he explained brightly, already in the process of removing the lid. “But Christopher says he ‘doesn’t like games’—” (here Tomás affected the deep, overserious voice of his overachieving engineering major roommate Christopher, and Timothy, who was of the opinion that Christopher very much needed to get a life, chuckled at the impersonation) “—so he gave it to me.”

They all bent forward a little and peered into the box, and Timothy felt a queer thrill of anticipation, a pleasant shiver in some deep recess of his body. He wondered if the others felt it too, but he it occurred to him that he was probably struck by the resonance with the story of Pandora and he was too ashamed at how silly the comparison was to actually mention it aloud, so he kept his eyes fixed on what Tomás had revealed. The interior was painted a deep midnight blue, but lying inside was just a stack of what looked like Trivial Pursuit-style question cards, held in a dark blue sheath that covered two-thirds of their length. The only other item in the box was a stray slip of thick paper that were most likely the instructions.

“I dunno about this,” Vincent said, leaning back into his seat. More of his leg was rubbing against Timothy’s now, but it still seemed like he was oblivious. “I usually don’t really like games either,” he hedged.

Maksym scoffed before Timothy could. “You play games all the time,” he said, and looked right at Timothy. At first Timothy assumed he meant it in the way that Timothy himself had been about to vocalize—that Vincent was a consummate athlete through and through and spent all the time he could playing sports—not just swimming but football, baseball, basketball, anything—he’d even tracked down a local amateur rugby team and played with them whenever he could. But as he met Maksym’s gaze Timothy realized he might mean that Vincent’s constant shirtlessness and casual physicality, especially around Timothy, was another kind of game. Maksym, Timothy surmised, seemed to believe Vincent was toying with Timothy’s affections, maybe without even realizing it. Timothy raised an eyebrow at Maksym, and Maksym raised both of his questioningly in return.

Timothy bit his lip and glanced at Vincent, his eyes lingering on the jock’s thick, pillowy pecs. Maybe what was needed for him to figure his buddy out was for Timothy to spend some time around Vincent in an unconventional way. “C’mon, Maksym’s right,” Timothy said cheerily. “And I think this is exactly what we need. You in?” Vincent cocked his head at Timothy and then shrugged his wide, bulging shoulders.

“Good,” Maksym said. Before anyone else could make a move he leaned forward, snatched the instruction slip out of the box, and sat back in his seat, all in a single, fluid motion. Tomás opened his mouth and then shrugged himself, evidently glad to let Maksym take charge, as he often did with a smoothness that matched his physical movements. At times he could be almost balletic, Timothy mused, and wondered again if Maksym had any background in dance.

Maksym read to himself, then announced, “It says we should all be drinking beer for best effect.” Timothy took the cue. “On it,” Timothy said as Maksym carried on reading silently, and hauled four fresh beers out of our cooler. Over the clinking of the bottles Timothy thought he heard Maksym mutter “unaware—except for me,” followed by a small, bemused chuckle, and he wondered briefly what exactly Maksym was reading.

They all dutifully opened their beers and took a pull, Maksym included, though he kept on reading the instructions—or perhaps rereading them (how many words could be printed on that little slip?), his eyebrows now high on his forehead. Finally they all set their beers down and Timothy said, “Well? What does it say? What are the rules?”

Maksym glanced around the group quickly, meeting the eyes of each of them in turn, then slipped the card in his shirt pocket. “It says we go clockwise and each take turns asking the others a question from the deck. When each player has given an answer, the turn-taker chooses the best answer by kissing the one who gave it.”

Tomás grinned incandescently at this, which Timothy thought was pretty damn interesting, especially when the cutie Brazilian soccer jock turned quickly to check Timothy’s own reaction. He must have liked what he saw because his grin, if possible, got even wider, and his well-muscled thigh flexed eagerly against Timothy’s. Timothy, emboldened and a bit buzzed, flexed his own more modest thigh back.

Vincent, however, was skeptical. “You just made that up,” he said. “Let me see that card.”

“Those are the rules,” Maksym said with a crooked smile. “You playing or not?”

Vincent sighed and, by way of answer, took another swig. Maksym moved to pick up the stack of cards in their sheath, but Timothy interjected, “I think Captain Grumpy should take the first turn.” Maksym made a “fair enough” face and handed the cards to Vincent, who accepted them with a show of reluctance. He pulled off the sheath, tossing it in the box, and turned over the first card. He reacted immediately.

“Geez, this is stupid,” he said. “The question is, ‘What behavior should the person on your right exhibit more often?’ What are we, 14-year old girls playing Truth or Dare?”

“This is not Truth or Dare,” Maksym said casually. He transferred his penetrating gaze to Timothy, and Timothy, unnerved, remembered belatedly that the motion of play was supposed to proceed clockwise around the table. He recalled the question Vincent had read. The person on his right—that was Vincent. Timothy eyed his buddy. “That’s easy,” he said cuttingly. “Being nice.”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “I am nice,” he said exasperatedly. He sighed, and added, “I’m just tired and stressed from finals.”

Timothy smiled at him. “I know, just teasing. Okay, my real answer is ‘being relaxed’.”

They looked at Tomás, who, as always, wriggled happily at the attention. He looked at Timothy. “Er, Timothy should be—” he paused a second to consider, then said, “More flirty!”

Vincent barked a laugh. “So he should be more like you, then?” he needled.

“Yes. Definitely!” Tomás said with adorable firmness.

Vincent seemed amused. “I’d pay money to see that,” hesaid.

“Fucker,” Timothy chided him.

“Max?” Vincent said, turning to the rangy Polish Adonis.

Maksym considered Tomás shrewdly, then said, “I also choose ‘more flirty’.”

“Good god,” Vincent said in mock horror. “He’s bad enough as it is!” Timothy glanced at Vincent, delighted and faintly surprised that the fairly oblivious Nordic jock had actually noticed this aspect of Tomás’s personality. Vincent looked at the other three, then checked with Maksym, “So I—er, kiss the one with the best answer?” Maksym nodded soberly, so Vincent, with only a brief show of hesitation, leaned across the little table and gave an ecstatic Tomás a very hot-looking ten-second kiss right on the smacker.

Vincent fell back in his chair, a look of wry amusement at the silliness of the game writ large on his face. Timothy turned to Tomás and asked playfully, “Got any more of those, bro?”

He wasn’t totally sure Tomás would respond positively—but he was pretty sure. You had to put yourself out there, Timothy knew—life was just so much more fun that way! And after all, Tomás was letting Timothy gently caress Tomás’s awesomely perfect thigh under the table, right? But Tomás just grinned and leaned in to give Timothy the same sweet kiss, letting him have just a little tongue at the last second, the tease. Timothy’s sausage cock was now super hard and throbbing hard against Timothy’s thigh.

He looked up to catch Maksym watching him with great interest, his sea-gray eyes dancing. Why was he looking at him like that? He seemed—animated somehow, as if he were learning something altogether delicious just from watching Timothy and Tomás make out for a few seconds. Timothy liked Maksym a lot, and it was always fun that his tongue was as sharp as his cheekbones. Still, at times like this he was not completely sure he totally understood him.

Vincent’s rough baritone broke in on his thoughts. “Take the cards, doofus,” he was saying, and Timothy realized they were all waiting for him to rake his turn. Oh. That was why Maksym was staring at him. He felt his cheeks warm slightly as he took the stack of cards from Vincent, letting their fingers brush for just a second, and turned over the next card.

“It says, ‘What one sexy thing about the person opposite you should the whole group share as well?’” This was a strange game, that was for sure, but if he got to hear everyone’s thoughts about what the others found sexy—shit, he realized, that meant Maksym was going to do him. He put that aside for the moment, though, ignoring the fact that Maksym’s steady, calculating gaze was still fixed on him, and looked expectantly at Tomás, eyebrow raised in inquiry. He gave Tomás’s thigh a squeeze with his left hand as encouragement, and Tomás winked at him and pushed his leg more firmly against Timothy’s even as he turned toward Vincent to eye him consideringly.

“What is the one sexiest thing about Vincent?” Tomás mused, then answered himself as if it were stupidly obvious: “His muscles!”

“But that’s many sexy things,” Timothy objected. He liked to be specific. Tomás glanced at him, frowning slightly, and he explained, “You have sexy muscles too, but if I had you, I’d definitely say your thighs.” Tomás beamed and seemed ready for another hot kiss, but Timothy admonished him, “Not yet,” and redirected Tomás’s attention to Vincent. They both sized him up. Vincent looked back at them indulgently, pretty used to being appraised for his exceptional physique. “So? Pick one,” Timothy said.

“The chest,” Tomás said with hardly any hesitation.

Timothy smiled and stroked Tomás’s thigh. “Excellent choice.” He looked across the table. “Maksym?” he asked, careful to keep his voice steady.

Maksym spoke immediately, but with an air of having carefully chosen his words. “His two huge dicks,” he said, slowly and clearly, eyes flashing wickedly.

“Ha, ha,” Timothy said. This was an old joke among them: his big fat cock tended to create such a big package that someone on his floor had joked that he must have two cocks stuffed in there, and it became a running gag, to the point of ongoing jokes like two condoms being left on his bed when he’d let slip he had a date and a smirking Maksym making a point of introducing him to a pair of hunky identical twins he knew at a bar one night. Vincent, of course, had been happy to blithely “confirm” the rumor once they both made the swim team. “Very funny,” he continued. “What’s your real answer?”

Maksym gave him a shit-eating grin. Something was definitely up with him, but all Maksym said was, “That’s my answer.”

Timothy shook his head. “Whatever,” he said, turning to the remaining player. “Vincent?”

“You already said it,” Vincent said. “His legs.”

Timothy nodded. “We’ll definitely have to keep those legs in mind,” he said, and then he turned back to Tomás and giddily indulged in the reprise he’d been needing of that brief, hot kiss they’d just shared; only this time not quite as brief. After a moment, however, he realized the kiss had become a three-way make-out—Maksym had leaned forward and joined their smooch, wrapping his long, warm hands around both their necks and pulling their very willing lips together. Timothy was overwhelmed with how hot it was, the three of them with mouths wide open, lips sliding together, tongues twisting around each other, and it was all the more amazing for the intriguingly complementary sensations of Tomás’s eager mack and Maksym’s lingering, sensuous kiss.

It was nearly a minute before Timothy fell back into his chair, breaking the kiss, and that was only because he was honestly afraid he was going to suddenly lose control of his throbbing, aching cocks and blow a couple of loads right there in his shorts. As he lay back in the chair, recovering, his cocks seeming more than ever to want to fight their way out against their cloth prison, his legs still pleasantly mashed by the muscular legs of his two friends, without really realizing it he let his right hand wander up to his pecs. It felt like a natural thing to do, maybe because his pecs, unlike the rest of his buff-but-not-big muscles, were abnormally large, and he stroked them as if it were habitual for him—though his left hand was staying firmly on Tomás’s warm, meaty thigh. His eyes fell to Tomás’s own huge pecs, squeezed somehow into his tight, clingy soccer top. “It’s criminal for you to wear shirts that tight,” he said in a low voice he hardly recognized, and on an impulse reached to stroke Tomás’s pecs instead of his own. Tomás smiled, his gaze locked on Timothy’s hand as he brazenly copped his feel.

“Fuuuuck,” Maksym was moaning. Timothy spared him a glance, wondering why he was reacting to him flirting with Tomás again, but Maksym was looking down at his own long, lean body as he sprawled in his chair. His soft, silky shirt draped subtly but provocatively over Maksym’s monster pecs, drawing the eye to his sexily square shoulders and long, lanky torso and the large lump in his loose, dark trousers, where something moved suddenly, or perhaps two somethings. “Holy whore,” he blurted, seemingly so surprised his usual composure was momentarily derailed. “Guys, this is real—” he murmured, still to himself. To Timothy it sounded as if he were addressing the two heavy muscle-piled on his chest, and he smiled, amused as well as perplexed by Maksym’s unusual behavior.

“What’s real, your gorgeous body?” Vincent laughed, and Maksym looked up, slightly confused. “Yeah, we know.” His hand was in his lap and he seemed to be trying to adjust himself, not entirely successfully. “Fuck, these things are totally a pain in the ass,” he muttered. Timothy, caught by surprise, almost choked on the saliva he hadn’t been aware he’d been churning out when Vincent said that, and the shirtless muscle-hunk gave him an indulgent look. “No jokes, you know what I mean. Guys, what do you say we ditch the britches?”

“Yes!” Tomás got out at the same time Timothy shouted, “No!” Maksym just regarded him questioningly, and Vincent soon turned toward him with a very similar expression.

Timothy felt himself color. “I’m—not wearing any underwear,” he admitted, hating how easily his fair skin showed his blushes. Maksym laughed out loud, which didn’t seem fair as he was the only one paler than him, but then Tomás, leaning forward and catching his eye, just beamed at him and said, with unmistakable enthusiasm, “Me neither!”

“C’mon, it’s just us,” Vincent said in what sounded like a genuinely casual tone. He was already standing to shuck his jeans. Tomás practically jumped to his feet, his tennies toed off and his long athletic shorts shucked before Vincent was even unzipped. Tomás’s long, brown, uncut cocks bobbed up and slapped against the yellow of his jersey, drops of clear pre already forming at the slit, ballsack pulled taught and full against his groin. As Timothy stared at Tomás’s long dicks he found he was panting slightly, his mind momentarily swamped by the knowledge that only a few scant inches separated those beauties from his eager mouth.

Then, to his amazement, he heard Vincent say: “Those are nice—but not as nice as mine.” Slowly Timothy turned to watch as Vincent—who never bragged about his amazing body—finished kicking off his beat-up old jeans and his even more beat-up trainers into one messy pile off behind Timothy, exposing mostly hairless legs and big, bare feet (he worse socks less often than he wore shirts). Timothy, already agog, was sure Vincent was going to stop there, keeping his fat, wet-tipped cocks bound up and struggling in his straining, rust-red boxer-briefs; but seeing Tomás’s tall, beautiful cocks bouncing free, plus the frustration of having his big hard tools twisted up in any kind of restrictive clothing, must have decided him to go fully and completely starkers. As Timothy gaped—and Tomás joyously wolf-whistled—Vincent shucked his briefs in one quick, two-handed move, freeing his twin fat, round cannons to spring up into what looked like concrete, immovable hardness, fixed fast at an angle a hand’s-breadth above the horizontal. Fascinatingly, unlike his and (evidently) Tomás’s twin pillars, Vincent’s weren’t in perfect parallel but splayed out from each other just slightly. To Timothy it was endearing and quite intoxicating, like a gap between the front teeth of someone who would otherwise be too unendurably beautiful.

As they stared, two matching drops of precum seeped from Vincent’s cocks and then, after a second of hanging tantalizingly from Vincent’s cockheads, dripped simultaneously onto the little table, forming two tiny pools of jizz a couple of inches apart. Timothy wanted very much to lap both of them up with his tongue, but Vincent, even as he sat down, reached out with two fingers and mopped up first one drop, then the other, and brought them to his mouth. Timothy’s vision filled with Vincent’s wide, red tongue licking his jizzy fingers clean. He gulped, barely aware of his own urgent erections.

“Your spunk taste that good, Vince?” came a voice from somewhere—Maksym, Timothy realized.

His mouth still huge in Timothy’s eyes, Vincent grinned and said, “Fuck yeah. Doesn’t yours?”

A jangling came from somewhere, and Timothy forced himself to get a grip and refocus on the real world. Opposite him, Maksym had stood at some point during Vincent’s show and had already unbuckled his trousers. Now he let them drop, his lush, silky olive green boxers going with them, but his shirt tails, disappointingly, hid Maksym’s crotch. But the impediment was only temporary, Timothy realized, because Maksym was now unbuttoning his shirt—and he was taking his time, too, not at all minding that he had an audience gawking at his towering, extra-lanky form. First his deep cleavage was revealed, with its light dusting of dark hair escaping from between the massive pecs like wild grass escaping through a sidewalk crack. Then his long, perfect abs were revealed, brick by brick, uncommonly tantalizing not only for their model-worthy definition but because they weren’t aligned, giving him not an ordinary six-pack but an even sexier seven-pack.

Then the last button was undone and suddenly the shirt was off and gone, floating behind Maksym like the echo of a superhero’s cape, as his uncanny equipment was revealed: two beautiful, crooked footlong cocks that, to Timothy’s deep, gut-stirring awe, twisted not only away from the vertical toward Maksym’s left nipple but also around each other, almost like part of a caduceus without the staff between them, so that the left one ended up on the right, their heads coming to rest abutting each other, drooling down each other’s shafts. They begged to be sucked together, if you could take them. And not only sucked. Timothy very seldom thought about having someone fuck him and finally take his cherry, but at the stirring sight of those twisted, slime-slicked cocks his anus flexed and spasmed with a new and potent, 200-proof lust.

“Oh fuck,” breathed Tomás, similarly mesmerized. Maksym sat back down in his chair as if on a throne. Timothy spared a glance at Vincent. Even he was gaping, captivated like the rest at the sight of Maksym’s big, hard, twining tools.

When Timothy looked back Maksym was giving him a piercing gaze that made his heart jump. “Only you left, little Timmy,” he said is a soft, deep voice. Timothy gulped and, handing the stack of cards wordlessly to Tomás, stood slowly and started fumbling with the button of his jeans. His face was burning, but there was no way he could chicken out.

When he couldn’t quite pry the button loose on his straining waistband Tomás, who’d been staring hard at the enormous bulge in Timothy’s crotch, said, “Let me.” He moved to set the cards on the table, doubtless prefatory to reaching out for Timothy’s fly. But Maksym broke in, “Let him do it.” Reluctantly, Tomás eased back, still clutching the cards, but not all the way to his chair. They all felt very close.

The tail of his tee shirt seemed unaccountably in the way as he struggled with his jeans, so he impulsively shucked it, tossing the black tee onto the little pile Vincent had made. Finally Timothy prized the stubborn button loose and, instantly, his flexing cocks yanked the zipper wide open and shoved themselves into full and complete erection. And erection was the word. They stood tall and impossibly straight, wide and fat and so huge his wet cockheads were tickling the bottoms of his equally massive pecs. He stood there, jeans pooled around his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment as the others gasped.

“Oh my god,” Tomás gushed.

“I still cannot believe how huge you are,” Vincent said, wonder audible in his voice.

But for some reason Timothy’s eyes were locked on Maksym’s. “I knew it,” Maksym said, and Timothy was glad to have the distraction of wondering why. He sat down quickly. As soon as he did so Vincent slumped back again in his seat, only this time, as his slid his legs forward, he casually draped his left leg over Timothy’s right, as if laying claim to him amidst fierce and aggressive competition. Timothy swallowed and realized his mouth was dry.

“Another round,” he mumbled, “we definitely need another round.” He bent to pull beers from the cooler and had to stop himself—his cocks were shoving up hard into his huge pecs and preventing him from bending over as effectively as two kickstands. Impatiently he grabbed them with both hands and—with difficulty—pulled them out in front of his pecs so he could bend down and retrieve the beer. As he grasped two bottles in each hand he felt something wet on his cheek and realized his right cock was sliding along the side of his face—he could feel the rough bit of bristle along his jaw as it lightly scuffed his impossibly hard boner. He straightened up, embarrassed again, and handed out the beers, feeling his massive cocks slap back into their accustomed positions under his pecs, pushing hard against his tight but unremarkable abs.

“Duuude,” Tomás said, “You can suck those monsters without even trying!” His chocolate-brown eyes were huge.

“Oh, it’s—um,” Timothy dithered. His eyes caught Tomás’s own tall, slender cocks, which were leaking copiously on his Brazil team jersey. “I’m sure you can too,” he said, trying to shift focus from himself.

“Yeah,” Tomás said, “but that’s only because I’m really bendy.”

“Um,” Timothy said, desperate to get the focus off his and his abnormal equipment, “wasn’t it your turn?”

“Huh?” Tomás said, sounding slightly dazed, but Maksym seconded Timothy’s remark. “It was your idea to play this game,” he said. “Take your turn and gape at those phone poles of Timmy’s later!”

“Oh, right, right,” Tomás said, looking down at the cards in his hands.

“And try not to get jizz all over them,” Timothy added, trying to get back to the jocular mood they’d been in before.

Tomás smiled, though it was still a kind of oddly shy smile. But he cleared his throat and, turning over a new card, read: “What about the person on your left should he have even more of?” He looked excitedly at Maksym, and the others followed suit.

Maksym looked at the big, bluff hunk to his left. “It’s tough to choose,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “He has so much of everything!” Timothy and Tomás giggled, but Vincent just rolled his eyes. After another moment’s thought Maksym narrowed his eyes and said in a shrewd tone, “That tasty jizz of his. I know it must be part of his secret to growing all that muscle,” he added as an aside to Timothy and Tomás, “so I think he should make so much of it he’ll have to share.”

“Whaaaat-ever,” Vincent said. “As if I needed magic jizz to look like this,” he said, deliberately catching a drop of precum from his left cock onto his fingertip and licking it clean.

Tomás laughed. “I don’t care, I’m picking Maksym no matter what the others are!”

“Oh yeah?” said Vincent, as if Maksym had thrown down a challenge that was no match for what Vincent had to offer. Something about all the sex in the air had definitely brought out his playful, competitive side, Timothy thought, and that was pretty sexy in and of itself. “What if I said Timothy here deserves more than the two cocks all of us have, and should have even more cock?” He arched an eyebrow at Tomás, who gulped.

“And what if I said,” Timothy said, jumping in before Tomás could react, “that you should have more of those amazing legs?” Tomás stared at Timothy, transfixed by the idea. Timothy smiled seductively at him. “Think of how awesome that’ll be on the soccer field,” he added in a honeyed voice.

The words were barely out of Timothy’s mouth when Tomás dove eagerly into a deep, sloppy kiss with Timothy. But as Timothy fell ecstatically into the kiss he heard Maksym say, “Come on,” and a second later he felt two more hot mouths join the kiss, which got more and more carnal and mindless and coursed through them like orgasmic fire. Indeed as the four-way kiss seemed to deepen and deepen Timothy felt like his three enormous cocks were not only trying to get even harder but were seconds from cumming, thinking about those hot, luscious mouths, about Maksym’s huge suckable twining cocks, Vincent’s nonstop flow of jizz, and maybe most of all Tomás’s three wonderful, mesmerizingly gorgeous legs. Abruptly Timothy broke the kiss and pulled away a few inches only because he knew he would actually cum very soon if they kept it up, and he was both embarrassed by the idea and also feeling a bit like he didn’t want to blow his wads just from kissing, however hot it was.

He looked at his three friends, their faces all still close together and near enough he could feel their heat, their eyes opening to stare at him in unbridled lust. Maksym’s pupils were wide and dark, his long-fingered hand still curled around Vincent’s neck from when he’d brought them both into the kiss. Vincent himself looked dazed and almost feral, his strong left arm wrapped unmovably around Timothy’s shoulders, and Tomás likewise looked like he was drowning in lust. All of their cocks, Timothy saw, were covered in a thick layer of spunk, as if they had partially cum—Maksym’s twisted doublecock; Tomás’s two long towers, one rising tall from each of his two groins; and Vincent’s two steadily seeping cannons. All of them were covered in delicious cum and hard as adamantium. Never before had he craved cock so unbearably. Timothy wanted to wrap his mouth around all of them, his own cum-drenched triad not the least. He could feel them, erect to an ungodly degree, two pushing against his fat, heavy pecs and the middle one nosing rudely into the cleavage between. They all stared at each other, hardly moving except for the flexing and twitching of their achingly hard cocks, their breath a harmony of staggered pants.

“Timothy’s right,” Maksym murmured at last, seeming to focus before the rest of them as if he were surfacing from deep water. Timothy blinked at him, his own mind slowly normalizing around his perplexity at Maksym’s words. Glancing at the others, Maksym explained in a soft but growly voice, “We—shouldn’t come yet.” His eyes met Timothy again and he winked.

Timothy, impressed for his part that Maksym had guessed why Timothy had broken the kiss, just nodded. “It’s your turn,” he breathed, and managed a slight smile.

The Four Jocks, #9 6,468 words Added Dec 2014 19k views 4.6 stars (5 votes)

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