C
cdg9899
Guest
Hey, I hope this is okay. It involves 18+ characters b/c this is college and I hope this isn't inappropriate violence. I see it more as locker room horseplay.
***
Craig was a cocky Freshmen soccer player in college who mouthed off to the college football team one too many times about how football wasn’t really a manly sport and how soccer was so much better. He would taunt his football-playing friends in between classes and during lunchtime: football players were “meatheads” who needed to feel “manly” by putting all their pads. It was a “gay” sport because the quarterback had to put his hands up some other guy’s ass.
The football players got tired of this and hatched a plan one day after practice to make Craig pay for his words. They talked gleefully about how they were going to mess with Craig. “Yeah, dudes, Craig is going to be one sorry SOB,” one football player said. “Or how about just our bitch,” another football player laughed, cupping his crotch and massaging it while the others jeered him on: “Hell yeah, dude!”
One day after practice, there were fifteen varsity football jocks waiting for Craig when he walked into the locker room. Their football practice had ended a little earlier than the soccer practice, so they took their time getting into the locker room and dawdled and delayed until Craig came in – easy to do since there’s a lot of horsing around that goes on anyway.
When Craig walked into the locker room—slightly sore from a hard practice, sweaty, walking along with his usual arrogant jaunt—he didn’t notice the football players quietly appearing out of nowhere and blocking off either side of the aisle where his locker was. He looked up, startled, when one of them called out, “Hey fag!”
Before he knew what was going on or could attempt to run out, they rushed him and grabbed his arms and legs and lifted him up in the air. Cries of “Grab him!” and “Guys, get his legs, we’ll get his arms!” echoed throughout the locker room. There were other boys nearby but no one wanted to get in the way of the football players.
Craig was struggled like a madman, shouting, thrashing around, trying to break free, but the jocks had him. In desperation, he reached out and clawed wildly onto the edge of the locker, a bench, anything to hold onto, but stronger hands pried his fingers away as the mass of shouting, hooting, hollering football players triumphantly spirited away their struggling catch.
They carried him into the varsity locker room and slammed the door shut. There were about twenty football jocks in the room, of all shapes and sizes, but most were very good looking, cruel arrogant jocks who also wrestled or played lacrosse or baseball. All were in various states of undress, but most were still in full pads with their helmets taken off. Quite a few, however, had taken off their jerseys and shoulder pads—just Underarmour shirts underneath—and had partially unlaced their pants showing the waistband of jocks and UA shorts.
No adults were around. They threw him down on the ground and surrounded him. Craig looked wildly around him, yelled “F**k,” and tried to make a break through the pack of football players. But they merely laughed and a bunch of them took hold of his arms and another bunch grabbed his legs. He was suspended in the air again and the football players surrounded him, taunting him. “Lemme go guys, dammit, lemme go!” he cried desperately.
Someone yanked off his shoes and tossed them away. Two other pairs of hands simultaneously pulled down his soccer shorts and his shirt was simply ripped off his upper body by three more pairs of hands. He was practically naked: just his black Underarmour compression shorts. That’s it.
Craig was held down to a padded bench (for the furnishings were much nicer for the varsity football team) and the captain of the football team stepped up to him with a sneer on his face. “Looks like the Freshmen fag needs some oxygen. Hold him tight, boys!” The captain had his shoulder pads off so his upper body muscles showed through his UA shirt; his tight pants were partially unlaced. You could clearly see the words Underarmour printed in black and white on the waistband of his compression shorts.
As Craig struggled wildly to get free—and as the jocks held him to the bench ever tighter—the captain reached down into the front of his pants and freed the cup—one of the deep banana-style cups—from his compression shorts. After working it out of the built-in pocket, he held it up for all the guys to see—they pumped in their fists in the air and yelled louder, “Give that fag some oxygen!—thrust the cup onto Craig’s face and, no matter which way Craig twisted his face, held the cup to his nose and mouth. The sound of Craig yelling was muffled by the cup. It stank of sweat.
There was a look of sheer terror and disgust on Craig’s face, as probably ten or so football players pressed down on various parts of his body—his feet, his thighs, his torso, his upper body, his arms— to keep him still and howled in delight. The rest of the varsity players were crowded around to watch the scene unfold and jeered just as loudly.
***
Craig was a cocky Freshmen soccer player in college who mouthed off to the college football team one too many times about how football wasn’t really a manly sport and how soccer was so much better. He would taunt his football-playing friends in between classes and during lunchtime: football players were “meatheads” who needed to feel “manly” by putting all their pads. It was a “gay” sport because the quarterback had to put his hands up some other guy’s ass.
The football players got tired of this and hatched a plan one day after practice to make Craig pay for his words. They talked gleefully about how they were going to mess with Craig. “Yeah, dudes, Craig is going to be one sorry SOB,” one football player said. “Or how about just our bitch,” another football player laughed, cupping his crotch and massaging it while the others jeered him on: “Hell yeah, dude!”
One day after practice, there were fifteen varsity football jocks waiting for Craig when he walked into the locker room. Their football practice had ended a little earlier than the soccer practice, so they took their time getting into the locker room and dawdled and delayed until Craig came in – easy to do since there’s a lot of horsing around that goes on anyway.
When Craig walked into the locker room—slightly sore from a hard practice, sweaty, walking along with his usual arrogant jaunt—he didn’t notice the football players quietly appearing out of nowhere and blocking off either side of the aisle where his locker was. He looked up, startled, when one of them called out, “Hey fag!”
Before he knew what was going on or could attempt to run out, they rushed him and grabbed his arms and legs and lifted him up in the air. Cries of “Grab him!” and “Guys, get his legs, we’ll get his arms!” echoed throughout the locker room. There were other boys nearby but no one wanted to get in the way of the football players.
Craig was struggled like a madman, shouting, thrashing around, trying to break free, but the jocks had him. In desperation, he reached out and clawed wildly onto the edge of the locker, a bench, anything to hold onto, but stronger hands pried his fingers away as the mass of shouting, hooting, hollering football players triumphantly spirited away their struggling catch.
They carried him into the varsity locker room and slammed the door shut. There were about twenty football jocks in the room, of all shapes and sizes, but most were very good looking, cruel arrogant jocks who also wrestled or played lacrosse or baseball. All were in various states of undress, but most were still in full pads with their helmets taken off. Quite a few, however, had taken off their jerseys and shoulder pads—just Underarmour shirts underneath—and had partially unlaced their pants showing the waistband of jocks and UA shorts.
No adults were around. They threw him down on the ground and surrounded him. Craig looked wildly around him, yelled “F**k,” and tried to make a break through the pack of football players. But they merely laughed and a bunch of them took hold of his arms and another bunch grabbed his legs. He was suspended in the air again and the football players surrounded him, taunting him. “Lemme go guys, dammit, lemme go!” he cried desperately.
Someone yanked off his shoes and tossed them away. Two other pairs of hands simultaneously pulled down his soccer shorts and his shirt was simply ripped off his upper body by three more pairs of hands. He was practically naked: just his black Underarmour compression shorts. That’s it.
Craig was held down to a padded bench (for the furnishings were much nicer for the varsity football team) and the captain of the football team stepped up to him with a sneer on his face. “Looks like the Freshmen fag needs some oxygen. Hold him tight, boys!” The captain had his shoulder pads off so his upper body muscles showed through his UA shirt; his tight pants were partially unlaced. You could clearly see the words Underarmour printed in black and white on the waistband of his compression shorts.
As Craig struggled wildly to get free—and as the jocks held him to the bench ever tighter—the captain reached down into the front of his pants and freed the cup—one of the deep banana-style cups—from his compression shorts. After working it out of the built-in pocket, he held it up for all the guys to see—they pumped in their fists in the air and yelled louder, “Give that fag some oxygen!—thrust the cup onto Craig’s face and, no matter which way Craig twisted his face, held the cup to his nose and mouth. The sound of Craig yelling was muffled by the cup. It stank of sweat.
There was a look of sheer terror and disgust on Craig’s face, as probably ten or so football players pressed down on various parts of his body—his feet, his thighs, his torso, his upper body, his arms— to keep him still and howled in delight. The rest of the varsity players were crowded around to watch the scene unfold and jeered just as loudly.
