Re: THE TWINK & THE JOCK (M+/M) *ANNOUNCEMENT*
Posted: Thu Feb 20, 2025 8:42 pm
CHAPTER INDEX
A "CLICK-TO-READ" LIST OF CHAPTERS DESIGNED TO MAKE FINDING SPECIFIC SCENES A LOT EASIER
A "CLICK-TO-READ" LIST OF CHAPTERS DESIGNED TO MAKE FINDING SPECIFIC SCENES A LOT EASIER

AN IMPROMPTU FIRST DATE
THE TWINK & THE JOCK
CHAPTER 27 - TWO BIRDS, ONE STONE
My thinly-padded digits nervously danced around and involuntarily curled up upon my eyes catching a glimpse of Brody intently eyeing them up. The hungry licking of his lips and the telltale narrowing of his eyes confirmed my suspicion; that of him wanting my socks. Not for himself but for our gurney-bound prisoner.
“Yo, when’s the last time you got those things washed?” the beefy tyrant-brute asked, motioning his head towards my socked soles and causing everyone else to cast my feet a curious glance.
“Uh, I dunno. Two weeks ago maybe?” I let out with an uneasy chuckle, my bashful reply sounding more like a question than it did an affirmative response.
“Dude, I can fuckin' smell them from here.” Matt reprovingly complained, before suddenly casting his gaze down towards the gurneyed prisoner and removing his smothering handgag just long enough to ruffle the twink’s hair up. “Ooh, I think we’ve found your gag, little guy. Haha! Looks like your big stepbro’s raunchy old stinkbombs are in serious need of a good washing!” he laughed, causing the now-addled teen to flash my vile soles a look of unbridled terror. The fear in his eyes was justified. My socks and sneakers really did stink and were both smelling the place up something fierce!

Poor Sammy crinkled his nose up and angrily tried negating Matt’s statement, but only the briefest hints of a first syllable made it out of his unfettered mouth before the blond jock’s smothering palm made an unexpected return. “Sssnmmmpphhh...”
“Shut the fuck up. Nobody asked for your opinion.” Matt contemptuously shot, paying no heed to the protesting runt even as the sound of hearty chuckling filled the noisy living room.
I laughed, though with a noticeable tinge of poorly-hidden nervosity. The thought of having my own admittedly noxious socks serving as gags inside another guy’s mouth – especially an unwilling one like Sammy – filled me with a bizarre mixture of exhilaration and shame. Okay, not shame. More like unease and embarrassment.
I guess part of the embarrassment also stemmed from the fact that my loose-fitting boxers were rather ill-equipped to stifle down the tent that was slowly but surely forming at the front of my knee-length red dazzle shorts. Beefy Brody, much to his own credit, maintained a serious expression and showed little emotion beyond that of grim determination.
“Pass your socks, bro. It's time we put those to good use.” he spoke, ordering the peeling of my ripe bundles and motioning for me to hand them over asap.
I chuckled rather dismissively, and, for reasons that continue to elude me at present, decided it would be fun to try and play “hard to get” for a while. As it turns out, Brody and the rest of my teammates weren’t taking no for an answer. “Guys.” was the only thing the beefy linebacker needed to say before an approving nod sent himself and his two burly henchmen my way.

You should’ve seen the sheer ferocity at which the three of them descended upon me. Raucous belly laughter instantly turned into a surprised yelp as Hunter unannouncedly tackled me from behind; wrapping his downright monstrous arms around my unsuspecting torso so as to prevent me from fighting back or mounting an escape. Brody and Matt lunged towards my seated form, grabbing my hairy legs by the ankles; no doubt in an attempt to forcibly strip the odorous cotton off my soles.
I could put up a fight against Matt and, on a good day, possibly stand my ground against him long enough to wrestle him to a stalemate. Hunter was another matter altogether though, and Brody even more so. Fighting off the three of them at the same time was utterly hopeless. That’s not even accounting for the fact that my seated position on the couch left me at an even greater disadvantage. In other words, I was no match for them.
My hairy ankles were forcibly splayed apart and very firmly held into place; one by Brody and the other one by Matt.
“These shitty fucks are coming off whether you want to or not, buddy.” the behemoth linebacker doggedly growled.
I laughed and writhed as beefy fingers hooked into my ankle socks; peeling the thin layer of moist fabric away and revealing my large and chronically strong-smelling, sweaty bare soles.

The socks came off like a second skin, turning inside out and shedding numerous balls of lint and other random bits and bobs as they did so. Still, Hunter continued holding me in a lung-crushing bear hug for several more seconds even after my wet bundles had forcibly been stripped off and crumpled up into one reasonably large ball.
To say that Sammy was frightened would’ve been an understatement. The gurney-bound twink was quite literally writhing in panic; desperately trying to break free of the unyielding gurney restraints before his older stepbro’s eyewatering stinkbombs – my eyewatering stinkbombs - made their final approach.
Captain Chad predictably cheered in the distance. “Yeah, haha! Shove ‘em in his mouth!” he barked, his voice booming even though the poorly articulated slur in his speech easily betrayed the mouthful of sandwich he was currently in the midst of ingesting. The auditive display of his busy-mouthed clamouring was quickly followed up with a thunderous burp; further debasing the already-classless spectacle.
Brody ignored the tattooed superhunk’s noisy cheering. He knelt down next to the gurney; my balled wads in one hand while his other palm slowly reached down to grab the frightened twink’s hairy dome.
“See these sweaty fucks? These are going inside your face!” he growled, his brow deeply furrowed as he brought the simmering ball of fabric down and hovered it directly above my stepbrother’s mouth.
Sammy didn’t answer. He just lay there, his face practically shaking as he stared at the fiendishly strong-smelling clump of fabric that was my much-talked-about ankle socks.
In a sense, it was fitting, at least as fitting as Matt getting a mouthful of captain Chad’s fiercely jutting pit bush. The guys had no way of knowing this, but the feisty twink had spent pretty much all of last week - and part of the week before - obnoxiously nagging me about my socks and running his mouth about them. Fittingly enough, those same raunchy old stinkbombs he’d so vehemently spent the last two weeks lamenting would soon be occupying his mouth and filling his oral cavity to the brim.
The poor lad was coerced into taking one final, cross-eye-inducing sniff before the barked order to open up was finally given.
Matt didn’t even give the little dweeb a chance to capitulate before immediately moving a hand down and pinching his defenceless nostrils shut. Poor Sammy wasn't even allowed the dignity of surrendering on his own terms.
Hunter and I watched as Brody ruthlessly made his move; burying the sweltering ball of acrid fabric down into my stepbrother’s momentarily gaping yap. Coughing sounds and muffled gagging noises peppered the ambient dissonance aplenty as uncooperative lips gave way to the brutish linebacker's immensely broad and forceful fingers.
Sammy could do nothing but lie there; his limbs and body strapped down from neck to toe, his watery eyes blinking uncontrollably and the back of his head resting plainly in Brody’s giant palm. My nauseating black bombs were fed into his mouth, barging into his struggling orifice and easily filling the vacant cavity that separated his cheeks, tongue and palate.
Brody spent the better part of the next minute awkwardly fumbling around with the fat roll of sticky duct tape while the gurneyed twink wordlessly struggled with the very generous wadding. His healthy fear of Brody was laid bare and made plainly obvious not only by the lack of complaints but also due to the absence of lingering combativeness. Sammy coughed into the hefty fabric but made no effort to free his mouth from it. He just lay there, struggling to close his lips around the acrid-smelling gag and repeatedly going cross-eyed even as his writhing form caused the padded gurney to noisily creak beneath him.
“That’s a good-sized stuffing.” Hunter approvingly noted, apparently deeming my socks adequate for the task.
"Yeah, he won't be talking his way past those anytime soon!" I ended up humorously adding, even as the gurney-bound teen continued wordlessly contending with his cumbersome new gag.
My socks, even though thin and barely reaching up to my ankles, were quite sizeable in length. Separately they would’ve made rather modest gags, but combined, the two of them made a rather formidable stuffing. Formidable enough to incommodate even the largest and roomiest of oral cavities. Sammy's cavity, for all its verbosity and usual feistiness, was neither large nor particularly roomy.
A fresh bout of chuckling ensued when Matt, who had regained his seated position on the couch, lowered a bare foot down atop the prisoner’s face and used his big toe to push the protruding bit of wadding back in. As per the assertive blond jock’s sternly voiced command, Sammy successfully managed to close his mouth around the gag; the noticeable bulging of his lips betraying the size and heft of the generous stuffing.
“There. Shut the fuck up.” Matt quietly muttered, before adding some extra – and dare I say - unnecessary insurance by clamping his foot and all five of his clammy toes down; effectively covering not only my stepbrother’s stuffed mouth but also his chin, nose and nostrils.

Sammy spent an entire minute sucking on my two-week-old wads and very noisily struggling for air beneath my buddy Matt’s suffocatingly fleshy toes while a visibly frustrated Brody vehemently grappled with the fiercely uncooperative roll of uber-sticky duct tape.
Sammy’s brow remained furrowed and his face bore a cross-eyed expression of unfathomable revulsion, but even so, his giant crotch-level tent did not relent. Not even for a second. He was as hard as a rock down there. And quite frankly, so was I. The nagging runt was silenced, AND I was getting my positively reeking, two-week-old socks washed. Definitely a two-birds, one-stone situation.
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