CUT: Part 3

The Dean’s office was a wood-paneled room, orderly and heavy with the scent of old books and faint varnish. Sebastian sat rigid in front of Dean Himbro’s massive oak desk, the wood gleaming dully under the lamplight.

Dean Anthony Himbro dominated the space behind it. Mid-forties, built like a bull, thick neck straining the collar of his green Oxford shirt. The fabric pulled tight across his heavy, rounded pecs and the hard ridges of his abs, buttons working to contain him. Salt-and-pepper hair clung to a receding hairline, stubble dark along a broad, square jaw. Behind reading glasses, pale grey eyes pinned Sebastian with calm authority. Thick forearms, dusted with hair, rested on the desk, sleeves rolled just enough to show the swell of muscle when he flexed. In front of him was a yellow folder, thick with papers and materials.

At the Dean’s side stood Deputy Desmond “Dezzy” Frost. Twenty-six, clean-cut, wavy light brown hair swept back, a moustache that hadn’t quite decided if it belonged on his still-boyish face. The khaki uniform hugged him like it was tailored yesterday. The shirt was stretched drum-tight over thick slabs of pec, the pleated pockets pushed forward by the swell of chest underneath. The six-pointed star badge sat high and proud on the left side, glinting whenever he breathed deep. Sleeves clung to mounded biceps, veins faint under tanned skin. His belt sat low on narrow hips, utility belt framing a flat stomach and enhancing the impressive bulge pressing against the front of his trousers. Arms crossed, he watched Sebastian with a flicker of something almost gentle in those hazel eyes.

Cool air drifted in from an open window behind the desk. Sebastian inhaled sharply. Sunny’s carrying box weighed on his lap like a coffin. Professor Kurt Stryberg’s hand settled warm and steady on his shoulder.

“I don’t know where I was that night,” Sebastian said, voice cracking.

Dean Himbro’s gaze flicked to Dezzy, then back. “Seb,” he rumbled, low and gravel-rough, “I need you to think real hard. I’ll ask again. What is the last thing you remember from Saturday night?”

Sebastian shut his eyes. Fingers clenched around the box until the edges bit into his palms. Behind his lids: nothing but fog and sparks.

Then—movement. A shadow. Lyle under the covers across the dorm, snoring soft and steady.

“Lyle,” Sebastian blurted, eyes flying open. “Lyle Lilly. My roommate. He was there with me on Saturday night. I saw him sleeping in our room.”

The Dean’s thick brow stayed knotted. He looked up at Kurt, the pain in those pale grey eyes unmistakable. Kurt caught it at once; there was worse coming.

“Is that it? Can I go now?” Seb said, his voice pleading.

“Not yet.” the Dean rumbled, voice heavy and rolling, “Seb, I need you to show Deputy Frost what’s in that case on your lap.”

Sebastian swallowed. “It’s… my ventriloquist doll. Splinter Sunny.”

Dezzy nodded and leaned in, curiosity flaring. “Can I see him?”

Seb paused, unsure and unsteady. A soft push from Kurt’s hand broke his paralysis. With deliberate movement, the young man flicked open the latches of the box one by one, his breath coming in short bursts. The lid creaked open.

Sunny lay there, painted wooden face tilted up, perpetual serene smile gleaming upwards at the ceiling.

Dezzy’s jaw tightened. The Dean let out a slow, heavy breath through his nose.

Kurt looked at both men and folded his arms. “Somebody want to tell me what a puppet has to do with any of this?”

Dezzy reached for the thick folder on the desk, flipped it open, and slid out an eight-by-ten glossy. He set it on the desk and tapped the image with one blunt finger.

“This was recovered at the scene.”

The photo showed Sunny’s face—or an exact copy—staring blankly at the night sky, streaked and spattered with dark red.

“We believe the killer wore it,” Dezzy said quietly. “Blood pattern says the mask was on his head when Cass and Sean were attacked.”

Sebastian went white. Kurt leaned over the desk, scowling.

“That’s a mass-produced Halloween mask,” the professor snapped. “Every cheap dollar store in town must have a whole bin of them this time of year. Having a ventriloquist dummy that looks similar to this hollow-face freak proves exactly nothing.”

Dean Himbro’s big fist tightened on the desk, knuckles whitening. “I am fielding calls from worried parents from across the country. I have a media circus outside. I’ve cancelled classes for the week. We need to find this ‘hollow-face’ freak, Kurt — RIGHT NOW!” The Dean thundered. 

The room took a collective breath.

Deputy Dezzy gave a heavy sigh: “The fact is — we have zero other leads right now. The crime scene was burnt to cinders. Any phone records won’t be ready for another day. Everyone we’ve interviewed has given us an air-tight alibi.” 

“Except for Sebastian,” Dean Himbro interjected, looking to Seb, his eyes narrowing. 

“Actually,” Dezzy cut in, calm, “Seb just gave us an alibi. It’s up to us to verify it.”

He rounded the desk in two easy strides, boots thudding soft on the rug, and dropped to one knee in front of Sebastian’s chair. The khaki shirt pulled tight across his chest and shoulders as he crouched; the badge glinted right at Sebastian’s eye level. Dezzy rested one heavy, warm hand on Sebastian’s forearm—calloused palm, strong fingers—and looked straight into his eyes.

“Seb,” he said, voice low and steady, “where can we find Lyle Lilly?”

Up close, Dezzy smelled faintly of gun oil and clean soap. His moustache framed a mouth that looked soft despite the hard line of his jaw. Sebastian’s pulse kicked against the deputy’s grip.

“I—I haven’t seen him since that night,” Sebastian whispered, throat closing.

Dean Himbro pushed up from his chair, the oak creaking under his weight. Shirt fabric strained across his wide back as he came around the desk.

“I know exactly where he is,” the Dean growled. “And I can take you to him right now.”

A short while later the four were on the move. The campus was eerily still as Dean Himbro, Kurt Stryberg, Sebastian Prescock, and Deputy Dezzy crossed the immaculate green quad. Sunlight spilled over empty walkways and hushed courtyards, the only movement coming from a few students lounging beneath oak trees or tossing a frisbee across the lawns.

“Where is everyone?” Seb asked, slowing as he scanned the quiet grounds.

“Dean Himbro cancelled classes for the week,” Kurt replied with a shrug. “Most students bolted—either because the murders rattled them or because Kellsbro isn’t exactly overflowing with diversions for the modern young man.”

Seb frowned, the black case in his hand knocking softly against his leg as Sunny’s joints shifted inside. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Kurt gave him a puzzled look. “It would have been posted on the bulletin board on your floor.”

Seb nodded, but unease tightened his chest again. Another blank spot. Another thing he had somehow failed to notice.

They reached the Coxwell Collegiate athletic complex a minute later—a sleek sprawl of steel and glass gleaming at the campus’s southern edge..

Dean Himbro shoved the double doors open with both hands. The others filed in behind him, trying to keep pace as he strode into the cavernous gym.

The double-height weight room buzzed with fluorescent light, its walls swallowed by mirrors. Racks, bars, plates, and specialized machines lined the space. Above the entrance loomed a massive painting of the school mascot—a furious falcon poised to dive at its prey.

Seb inhaled the thick blend of sweat and baby oil, nostrils flaring. To his left, a network of box lights illuminated a makeshift set. Milton “Milt” Drabbs, the athletic director, stood beneath them, murmuring with Seb’s roommate Lyle Lilly. Lyle glanced up as the group entered.

“Hey, Seb!” Lyle called, flashing a grin too wide, too eager. His smile faltered as he took in the Dean, Kurt, and Dezzy trailing behind. “Uh… what’s with the entourage?”

Milt turned as well, his expression darkening. “What the hell are you doing here?” he barked at Seb. “I thought we were finished with this circus.” His glare sharpened, accusatory.

“They’re here to save our asses,” Lyle said cheerfully, thumping Milt on the back. “I could use assistants for the photo shoot.”

“Photo shoot?” Dezzy echoed, bewildered. Even Kurt seemed thrown.

“Yes, a photo shoot,” Dean Himbro said. The three men looked at him in unison. The Dean folded his arms, smug. “Lyle and Milt booked the gym to shoot promotional images for the new Falcon’s United merchandise line.”

“You mean F.U.C.K.?” Kurt snapped. “That tawdry nonsense?”

“Falcon’s United at Coxwell, Kellsbro,” the Dean corrected, grin widening. Kurt grimaced.

“Face it, Stryberg,” Milt said as he waddled over, sliding an arm heavily around Kurt’s shoulders. “The era of stuffy sweatshirts and school crests is over. We’re moving into new territory—bold, contemporary. We’ve already got orders from across the continent. Even overseas.” He spread his fingers as if presenting an invisible marquee. “FUCK. FUCK everywhere.” He smirked and turned his head to look at Kurt. “Sex sells, Stryberg. Get on board or get out of the way.”

Kurt shoved him off with a grimace. His eyes shifted to Lyle Lilly, who had joined the group. “And you’re lending your… artistic talents to this enterprise?” he asked, voice brittle.

Lyle nodded, that too-bright grin flickering again. Seb studied him. They’d only shared a dorm for a few weeks, and while Lyle had never rubbed him the wrong way exactly, Seb’s reclusive nature and Lyle’s exuberant, social ease didn’t quite mesh.

It wasn’t that anything was wrong with being outgoing. Quite the opposite—most people adored Lyle. At twenty-one, the mousey-haired young man wasn’t conventionally handsome; something about his features was a bit oversized, a bit cartoonish. But charisma radiated off him. He was a social chameleon, slipping effortlessly into any group, welcomed everywhere. The ever-present camera around his neck didn’t hurt.

Of course, the basis of Lyle’s popularity was his undeniable talent for photography. Lyle’s photos dominated a rotating display in the Arts Hall, and it had become a minor campus obsession to be featured in one. Every weekend he was off at some party, some bonfire, some basement rave, capturing faces and crowds. Come Monday morning, groups of students gathered to watch him clip fresh prints along a string that snaked down the hall. No one admitted it aloud, but the photos had become a kind of silent social hierarchy. Being in a crowd shot was a privilege; but being the subject of a solo portrait made you royalty.

“I hate to cut in, fellas,” Deputy Dezzy said, rubbing the back of his head as if bracing himself, “but Lyle—I’m hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“Let’s get to the point, Dezzy,” Dean Himbro growled, impatience leaking into every syllable. He turned to Lyle and stepped in close. “Lyle, do you remember seeing this kid on Saturday?” He jabbed a thick, accusatory finger toward Seb.

“Uh… yeah,” Lyle said, blinking at the sudden scrutiny. “I came back to the room Saturday night after helping Milt with some set-dressing at his place. Seb was already asleep when I got in.” His shrug was loose, almost confused by the whole ordeal.

“Set dressing?” Kurt Stryberg said, faintly amused. He had never pegged the fat athletics director as the creative type.

Lyle nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. We’re shooting more promo stuff at his place Friday night. We’ve been building this insane set in his garage. It’s gonna be hella rad.” His grin widened. Lyle was always performing, always on.

“Thanks, Lyle,” Dezzy said. “This lines up with what you told us in your interview. I might have a few more questions later, but for now, we’ll leave you to it.”

“Leave?” a voice cut in behind them. “Before I say hello to my big brother?”

The four of them turned around as one. Framed in the double doors stood Channing Frost, and the sight of him hit like a shot of something illegal. Twenty-one, six-foot, with thick, glossy auburn hair that fell in damp waves over his forehead, still wet from the showers. His skin had that post-workout flush, golden and glowing, cheekbones sharp, lips full and curved in a lazy, knowing grin. The blue Falcons United robe hung open just enough to reveal a thick, carved chest: heavy, rounded pecs dusted with the same dark auburn hair that arrowed down the center of an eight-pack so defined it looked airbrushed. The tie of the robe sat low on narrow hips, the thin, neon green waistband of a FUCK jockstrap peeking through. He moved like he owned gravity, barefoot, every step making the slabs of his calves flex.

He zeroed in on Dezzy and closed the distance in three long strides, wrapping his big brother in a bear hug that lifted the deputy clean off the floor -- an impressive feat considering Dezzy's imposing size. Channing's robe gaped wider; Seb caught a flash of the deep V plunging beneath the terrycloth and had to look away before his brain melted.

“Was wondering when you’d drag your cop ass onto campus, bro,” Channing laughed, voice low and syrupy, slapping Dezzy’s back hard enough to echo. “This whole murder shit is wild, right?”

Dezzy’s ears went scarlet. “Yeah… wild,” he muttered, suddenly very interested in his shoes.He looked at the others. “Uh, some of you might know my brother Channing.” He said, sheepishly. “He goes to this school and he’s on the bodybuilding team.”

Channing released him and turned that megawatt smile on the rest of the room. His gaze slid over Kurt, over Lyle, lingered on the Dean with polite amusement, then locked onto Seb. Those whiskey-brown eyes widened, sparkling with genuine delight, “Oh DANG,” he said, “aren’t you the kid with the doll from Glory Howl last week? Dude, you killed it. I almost pissed myself laughing.”

Seb felt Sunny give an indignant twitch inside the case, as if the puppet took personal offense to being called a doll by a walking wet dream.

“Uhm – yeah. My roommate Lyle convinced me to perform that night.” He looked at Lyle, who shot him a look to shut up.

“The Glory Howl?” Dean Himbro repeated, voice tightening as though physically strangled by disapproval. “That dive off campus? They let you in? Underage? You weren’t served alcohol, I hope?”

“No sir!” Lyle cut in quickly, hands raised. “Open-mic night. Totally PG. I just thought Seb and Sunny might get their big break.” He fired another warning glance between Seb and Channing.

The Dean’s face was reddening by the second, and Dezzy looked like he was about to intervene—when a sudden commotion erupted in the hallway. Shouts, hurried footsteps, and then—

The doors crashed open, and the remaining four absolute beasts of the Falcons United Bodybuilding team strode in, each one radiating so much raw, dripping testosterone the gym lights seemed to flicker.

Leading them was Gunnar Stokes, six-foot-four, four inches and a walking obscenity at damn near 300 pounds of competition-grade beef. Still wearing his red baseball cap, the huge hunk strode in like he owned the place. The blue terrycloth robe was a joke on him; sleeves strangled by biceps thicker than most men’s thighs, chest so bloated with muscle the lapels refused to meet, exposing a deep, hairless canyon of pecs that bounced with every heavy footfall. Beneath the hem, his quads flared like sides of beef, forcing the fabric apart, the shadowed outline of a cock thick as a wrist swinging heavy with each step in his yellow FUCK jockstrap.

To his left strode Leo Russo, twenty-two, Italian perfection, six-foot-three and 280 pounds of olive-skinned muscular obscenity. Jet-black hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail that made his cheekbones and square jaw look even more brutal. The robe stretched across lats so wide they cast shadows. A treasure trail of black hair started just under his navel and disappeared into the white bulge of his FUCK jockstrap that shifted like something alive every time he breathed. 

On Gunnar’s right was Mason Mace, or “Mace-the-Ace”, barely eighteen and already a genetic freak. Six-foot-two of golden-boy muscle, sun-bleached blond hair flopping over bright blue eyes that still held a trace of innocence, until you noticed the way the robe gaped over a chest so pumped the veins looked ready to burst. Baby-fat softened his cheeks, but there was nothing soft below the neck: delts like cannonballs, arms twenty-two inches cold, and an eight-pack so ripped the skin looked vacuum-sealed over it. The knot of his robe had loosened just enough to reveal the root of a cock so thick it pushed up against his baby blue FUCK jockstrap like it was trying to tear free.

Bringing up the rear, and somehow making the floor tremble, was Josh Slotter, six-foot-five, 310 pounds of pure menace. Buzz-cut hair, a wicked smirk, and stormy eyes. His robe hung open like he couldn’t be bothered to close it, framing an incredible physique: pecs shelf-like and striated, every vein on his lower abs pulsing. A neon pink FUCK jockstrap, the pouch stretched to translucence by the heaviest, fattest cock any of them had ever seen, barely contained his massive meat. A riot of tattoos crawled up his forearms and disappeared beneath the robe only to reappear curling around nipples the size of silver dollars.

Four perfect, pumped, post-workout gods, skin still flushed and gleaming, muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline, cocks half-hard from the pump and the heat of the showers, filling the gym with the thick scent of sweat and sex.

“Awesome,” Lyle said, grinning. “Our models have arrived.”

Sebastian couldn’t tear his eyes away as the five college hunks clustered together, their laughter low and filthy, shoulders bumping, thick arms flexing casually as they trash-talked each other. Every one of them was obscenely jacked: traps bulging, delts round and striated, chests overdeveloped from years of bench-press worship. Veins snaked over biceps the size of softballs, abs carved into ridged eight-packs that disappeared beneath low-slung waistbands. Their skin glowed with that perfect golden tan, glistening already with a faint sheen of sweat that made every cut and curve of muscle look pumped and wet.

Coach Milt waddled over, his gut swaying under a too-tight polo, face red and piggy. He snarled something and stabbed a sausage finger toward Lyle, who lingered at the edge looking like a kicked puppy. Mason just rolled his eyes, unimpressed, the motion making his heavy pecs bounce.

Finally Milt clapped his meaty paws together with a wet smack.

“Alright, you worthless fucks, grease up! I want every inch of you shining like the fame-hungry trophies you are!” 

The robes dropped in one synchronized ripple of blue fabric.

Five perfect bodies, naked except for the skimpiest FUCK jockstraps in electric colors – neon pink, toxic green, blazing white, bright baby blue, and screaming yellow. The pouches were nothing more than thin, shiny mesh stretched to the breaking point over cocks that looked illegally huge. Even soft, the outlines were obscene: fat, veiny shafts coiled like sleeping pythons, heads flaring thick against the fabric, balls so heavy the straps dug deep into tanned, smooth groins. Their asses flexed as they shifted weight, the thin straps disappearing between cheeks you could crack walnuts on.

Lyle scurried forward with bottles of baby oil, hands shaking as he passed them out. Leo Russo and Josh Slotter immediately got at it, grinning like devils at each other.

Sebastian’s jaw couldn’t close as he stared. A loud clatter snapped him out of it; Sunny’s carrying case had slipped from numb fingers and hit the floor. The puppet sprawled there, wooden head tilted at the exact same angle as Seb’s, painted eyes wide, carved mouth open in what looked exactly like stunned lust. 

A shadow fell across him. Kurt Stryberg stepped in, blocking the pornographic display for a merciful second. The older man’s face was tight with something between disgust and sorrow.

“Seb,” Kurt said quietly, glancing over his shoulder as Leo let out a low, filthy laugh and dragged an oiled hand down Josh’s abs, fingers dipping just under the waistband of that straining pink jock. Josh’s head fell back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he bit his lip.

Kurt turned back, voice low. “Every second I stay here feels like I’ve stumbled into some fever-dream porno. I hate that it’s all built on the backs of young men with real talent.” He sighed, the sound ancient. “Young men like you.”

Seb swallowed hard, dragging his gaze up to Kurt’s kind, tired eyes. The sadness hit him like a punch; his big chance with Sunny, flushed away for Coach Milt and Dean Himbro’s greasy cash grab.

Kurt reached into his blazer and pulled out a blocky cellphone. “This is mine. You can have it until classes resume next week. My office and home numbers are in there. If this place starts eating you alive, or if you just need to talk, call me. Any hour. I mean it.” 

Seb stared at the phone. He’d never had one before. His fingers closed around it and he stuffed it into his pocket. His head still tingling from the sight of Leo now openly palming Josh’s oiled ass while Josh returned the favor, both of them half-hard cocks straining their jocks, oil dripping off them in slow, lewd rivulets.

“Taking off already?” Lyle’s voice floated in, half-mocking, as he approached the two of them.

Kurt didn’t answer beyond a curt nod. His eyes flicked once more to the center of the gym, then away, as if the sight burned. “Yes. I have actual work to do,” he muttered. He caught Milt’s piggy glare across the floor and returned the tiniest, frostiest nod imaginable before turning on his heel. Dezzy fell in beside him, muttering about interviews and the admin building, and the two men disappeared through the double doors like they were fleeing a fire.

The second they were gone, Lyle smirked and tilted his head toward the spectacle everyone else was pretending not to watch: “It looks like Dean Himbro’s got his hands full.” 

Sebastian’s gaze snapped over and his breath caught in his throat.

Dean Himbro’s green Oxford shirt had been rolled to the elbows, sleeves strangling his muscular forearms. His chest strained every button, heavy slabs of hairy pec practically bursting the fabric, the deep crease between them visible even from across the room. Below, dress slacks did absolutely nothing to hide the monstrous bulge running down one thigh, thick as a wrist and long enough to reach mid-thigh even soft.

And right now every ounce of that daddy power was wrapped around Mason Mace.

Mason's sun-bleached blond hair framed a face that belonged on a Calvin Klein billboard: square jaw, full lips, bright blue eyes half-lidded in pleasure. His baby-blue jockstrap was a joke, three whisper-thin straps and a pouch that had never been designed for the equipment he was packing. The straps had already vanished between the most obscene muscle ass Sebastian had ever seen: two globe-like cheeks, striated and hard, flexing with every tiny shift of weight. His back was a Christmas tree of lats flaring ridiculously wide, every ridge shining as Dean Himbro worked him over. 

The Dean had squirted what looked like half a bottle of baby oil straight into his huge palms, rubbed them together with a wet sound, and gone to town. Those dinner-plate hands swept up and down Mason’s back in long, possessive strokes, fingers digging into every groove of muscle, thumbs pressing hard along the spine until Mason’s head fell back and he let out a deep, slutty groan that echoed off the rafters.

“Fuuuck, Daddy…” Mason breathed, pushing that unreal ass backward.

Dean growled, low and filthy, and pressed forward. The front of his slacks met Mason’s oiled cheeks with a slick slap. You could see the exact moment the Dean’s cock woke up: the fabric along his right thigh tented, then stretched, then bulged obscenely as a truly outrageous daddy dick hardened, thick, veiny, and easily over eleven inches, running down his leg like a third limb.

Dean’s oiled hands slid around Mason’s torso, under the boy’s arms, and latched onto those gigantic, overhanging pecs. Mason’s chest was beyond pornographic: two massive slabs so pumped they jutted obscenely over his ribcage, capped with fat pink nipples already stiff as erasers. Dean kneaded them hard, palms slipping over the oil-slick muscle, fingers pinching and rolling those sensitive buds until Mason was panting and grinding back shamelessly.

“That’s my fucking boy,” Dean rumbled right into Mason’s ear, voice gravel and smoke. “Show ’em what a real man looks like.”

Mason’s eyes rolled. His cock, already infamous around campus as a thirteen-inch, wrist-thick monster, had been half-hard, stuffing the baby-blue pouch to the absolute limit. Now, with the Dean’s bulge riding the crack of his ass and those huge hands working his tits, it surged to full, terrifying hardness. The fabric creaked. A wet spot bloomed at the tip. Then:

KER-WHAP!

The waistband snapped like a rubber band shot against skin. The ruined jockstrap disintegrated, fluttering to the floor in tatters, and Mason’s horsedick sprang out like it had been fired from a cannon: thirteen inches of veiny, angry, upward-curving meat, flushed dark, the head a shiny plum purple and already drooling a thick rope of precum that spurted audibly against his own abs. 

Dean didn’t even flinch. He just ground harder, that clothed monster cock pressing against Mason's back legs, and twisted the boy’s nipples until Mason whined like a bitch in heat.

“FUCK!” Milt bellowed, waddling over red-faced, belly jiggling. “We only have sample sizes of those custom jocks, you stupid turds!”

Lyle just clucked his tongue, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Across the gym, Leo and Josh had stopped pretending to oil each other and were openly staring, hands frozen mid-grope, mouths open, cocks straining their own jocks as they watched the Dean dry-hump his prize eighteen-year-old bull in front of everybody.

Sebastian’s gaze skittered away from the Dean and Mason, searching for any shred of sanity left in the room, and slammed straight into Gunnar Stokes.

Gunnar stood in front of a mirror like a cologne ad. A red snapback sat backwards on his head, the flat brim framing mid-length dirty-blond hair that hung in sun-bleached strands around a face built for wet dreams: aquiline nose, square jaw, dreamy green eyes narrowed in pure lust. 

The huge musclehunk was still wearing his bright-yellow jockstrap with the word FUCK stamped across the pouch in huge, black block letters. The fabric was already soaked translucent with oil, clinging for dear life to an obscene bulge. Even completely soft, Gunnar’s cock was thick, long and heavy. His balls were so swollen the leg straps disappeared into his groin, forcing those heavy, low-hanging lemons to spill out the sides.

Gunnar tilted the baby-oil bottle and let a thick river pour straight down the center of his chest. It split over huge slabs of pec meat. The oil cascaded over an eight-pack you could grate cheese on, then vanished into the waistband of the doomed yellow jock.

He worked it in slow, worshipful strokes, big calloused hands gliding over every ridge and valley. His impossibly ripped torso glistened in the lights of the gym, muscles pumped. He let out a low filthy growl.

“Fuuuck yeah,” he muttered to his reflection, voice gravel and bass, flexing one pec so it bounced obscenely. 

He poured again, this time directly onto his abs. Oil pooled in every deep cut, then spilled over the waistband. The yellow pouch darkened instantly as the fabric absorbed it, turning sheer. You could see everything now: the fat shaft thickening, pushing the fabric out, as blood rushed south, the head swelling and already drooling.

Gunnar locked eyes with himself in the mirror, licked his lips, and dragged one hand down the center of his torso. He hooked a thumb under the waistband, tugged it down an inch, just enough for the root of his cock to reveal itself: thick as a wrist, shaft already bloating into full, hardness. A fat rope of precum spurt from the head, soaking the yellow jock.

Then he turned sideways, giving the mirror (and the entire gym) a profile view of that impossible physique. Lats flared like wings, traps swallowing his neck, ass exploding outward in two perfect, striated globes that made the thin yellow strap disappear completely. He slapped one cheek hard; the muscle barely jiggled, just rippled like steel under skin. Another slap, harder. His cock jerked in the pouch, now fully hard, the word FUCK stretched and distorted across fourteen-plus inches of wrist-thick teenage megameat.

He reached back, spread oil over those glutes like he was polishing marble, fingers digging in deep, pulling the cheeks apart just enough for a teasing flash of smooth, pink hole before letting them snap shut. 

Sebastian’s knees actually wobbled. Across the room Mason was still getting mauled by the Dean, Leo and Josh were openly frotting through theirjocks, and Gunnar Stokes was flexing, oiling, and basically hate-fucking his own reflection.

“Man, these guys really get into it, huh?”

Channing Frost’s voice slid in beside Seb, low and warm. A big, easy hand landed between Seb’s shoulder blades, friendly but heavy enough to remind him exactly how small he was next to the six-foot hunk.

Before Seb could answer, Channing was already pressing the bottle of baby oil into his hands. 

“Mind giving me a hand with this stuff? Milt’s on some kind of shine obsession today."

Seb swallowed. “Uh… sure.”

He squirted oil into his palms and reached up. The second his fingers met Channing’s skin, the big musclejock let out a soft grunt. 

Channing was all hard muscle, almost no fat: wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, abs cut deep and tight, skin hot and smooth under the oil. The neon-green FUCK jockstrap sat low on his hips, the black letters stretching a little as the pouch filled. He wasn’t hard, but the weight shifting behind the fabric was impossible to miss. He was just as big as the others.

Seb worked in careful circles on Channing’s thickly mounded pecs, trying to keep his breathing even. Channing watched him with dark eyes and that lazy half-smile, confident. The heat of Seb’s hands working down his abdominals making him flush a little.

“Damn, Seb, you’re good at this,” he said, voice softer than before. Then, catching himself, he flashed a quick, teasing grin. “Careful, though. I’m ticklish as hell.”

Seb huffed a nervous laugh and motioned for him to turn. Dutifully, Channing turned around.

The view from behind was just as overwhelming: lats flaring wide, back rippling every time Channing shifted, glutes round and thick and hard under the thin green strap. Seb spread oil across the broad expanse of Channing’s back, palms sliding over muscle that flexed playfully whenever he lingered too long.

Channing glanced over his shoulder, smirk back in place but gentler now. “You missed a spot, shorty,” he teased.

Seb’s face burned. He added more oil, hands gliding lower, brushing the strap where it disappeared between those perfect cheeks. Channing inhaled sharply, then let it out in a quiet laugh.

Seb sensed his tension: “Easy, killer. I’m not going anywhere.” 

When Channing turned again, the front of the jock had filled out more, the outline unmistakable, but he didn’t thrust or posture; he just met Seb’s eyes, steady and warm, the cocky mask slipping for a brief moment as something electric passed between them.

He took the bottle back slowly, fingers brushing Seb’s on purpose this time. “Thanks, man. Seriously.” He looked at Seb, then his eyes flickered to the side, avoidant – even bashful?

“Hey – I have an idea,” Lyle piped up, looking at the two of them. “Seb, I know you're down about that talent show thing getting canned. Why don’t you and Sunny come and perform at the Glory Howl tonight? It’s open mic night again. You were a real hit last time!”

Seb blinked, still dazed.

Channing spoke before he could answer. “Hell yeah Seb! Do it. I’ll be there.” He paused, then added, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The teasing grin returned, but his gaze lingered, something hopeful flickering behind it. 

Seb’s mouth open and closed for a moment. He couldn’t deny that the thrill of being on stage at the Glory Howl with Splinter Sunny had been deeply satisfying. Seb felt the knot in his chest loosen. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, you know what, I’ll be there.”

Channing’s answering smile was small, almost shy, and it lit his whole face up.

“Cool,” he said, bumping Seb’s shoulder lightly with his knuckles as he stepped past. “See you tonight, Seb.”

Lyle gave him a hopeful look. Behind him, Milt was barking at the others. Lyle sighed: “Looks like it’s time to take some photos. I’ll see you back at the dorm!”

Seb looked down at Sunny’s case. The puppet’s head had fallen upwards and seemed to be grinning at him. He bent down and closed it up. 

For the first time that day, he smiled.