The jock he fantasized about turned into a monster, he feared.
The locker room’s a cold, desolate shell, the team gone after a grueling practice that ended with slammed lockers and the sharp crack of a broken bench, leaving the air heavy with the stale stench of sweat and damp equipment. Tyler’s the last one here, the towel boy with a slightly chubby frame, dragging a broom across the tile with hands that tremble slightly. His hoodie lies crumpled on a bench, his damp t-shirt stretching over his soft midsection and rounded shoulders as he bends to pick up a wet towel from the floor, the motion pulling his jeans down to expose the pale, pudgy skin above his ass, his hips flaring out as he straightens. He’s a vulnerable figure in this cavernous space, the dim light casting long shadows that make the room feel smaller, more confining. The broom scrapes in a slow, uneven rhythm, its sound barely audible over the shower’s low, persistent hum from the back.
Gabe’s in the steam, a looming presence, black hair plastered to his scalp, dark eyes glinting with a cold, cutting edge. He’s a giant—six-foot-three, shoulders wide and unyielding, his chest and arms covered in tattoos: skulls with hollow eyes, thorny roses, and twisted mythical figures sprawling across his pecs, snaking down his biceps, and wrapping around his legs in a chaotic dance of ink. Water streams over his chiseled abs, pooling in the deep V of his hips, glistening off the coarse black hair dusting his skin. His cock hangs heavy, uncut, veins bulging under the wet foreskin, a raw, imposing sight. He turns, his ass tight and muscular, suds sliding down his inked thighs—cartoon characters and jagged lines shifting with each movement, a silent, menacing force. Tyler’s breath catches, the broom freezing mid-sweep, his eyes tracing the tattoos, imagining Gabe’s inked hands pinning him to the ground, that cock pressing against him with a rough, unspoken threat.
Tyler inches closer, the sweeping motion almost mechanical now, his gaze locked on Gabe’s body. The jock scrubs himself with slow, deliberate strokes, his hands rough over the tattoos, the water highlighting the contours of his muscles, the ink seeming to pulse with life—skulls grinning, roses dripping red. Tyler’s mind spins—Gabe’s inked fingers wrapping around his throat, a harsh whisper in his ear, that cock inches away. His own dick twitches in his jeans, a dull ache spreading, and he grips the broom tighter, trying to choke down the heat building in his chest, the steam thickening the air until it feels like a weight on his skin. Gabe’s a wall—black hair dripping, body a silent mass of ink and muscle—and Tyler feels exposed, his pulse quickening, unsure if he’s safe or already in danger.
Then Gabe shuts off the water with a sharp twist, steps out, steam rolling off him in waves.
“What are you looking at, faggot,” he says, voice low, steady, slicing through the humid air.
He walks forward, naked, water dripping in steady plinks to the floor, stopping a few feet away. His face is hard—sharp jaw, lips a thin, unreadable line, dark eyes locking onto Tyler like he’s stripping him bare. The tattoos shift as he stands still, and his right hand moves to his cock, stroking it slowly, the other hand tracing the ink on his chest—skulls and demons flexing under his touch.
“You sneaking in here like a filthy freak,” Gabe says, voice calm but edged. “Hoping some faggot fantasy comes true, huh?”
Tyler’s throat closes, sweat beading on his neck as he fumbles the broom, the handle slipping in his grip, his eyes wide with panic.
“No, I—I’m just cleaning,” he stammers, voice shaky, taking a small step back.
Gabe steps closer, his hand still on his cock, stroking with a lazy rhythm, the tattoos on his arm—demons and chains—shifting with the motion. His eyes don’t waver, dark and piercing, watching Tyler like a predator.
“Cleaning,” Gabe says, slow, deliberate. “Bullshit. You’re here to stare at me. Look at you, sweating like a dirty little perv.”
Tyler’s heart pounds, his fantasy flaring—Gabe’s hands on him, that cock close, the ink alive under his touch. He shifts, hiding his growing erection behind the broom, his hands slick with sweat.
“I don’t, I’m not,” he mumbles, voice cracking, dropping his gaze to the floor.
Gabe moves closer, now just a step away, his hand working his cock faster, the other brushing the skulls on his chest, the water still dripping from his body. His voice drops, low and tempting, a smirk in his tone.
“Don’t, huh,” Gabe says. “I bet you want to run your hands over this body—feel these tattoos, trace the ink down my chest, grip this cock while it’s hard for you. You see it, don’t you? The water running off my abs, the veins throbbing here, the way my ass tightens when I shift. You’re dying to lick it, to let me shove it down your throat ‘til you gag, you sick fuck.”
Tyler’s breath catches, his fantasy exploding—Gabe’s inked hands guiding him, that cock filling his mouth, the tattoos pressing against his skin. His erection throbs, and he stares, frozen, the broom trembling in his hands.
Gabe steps closer, now inches away, his hand still stroking, pinning Tyler against the locker, the cold metal biting into his back. His face is an inch from Tyler’s, his breath warm and damp, the tattoos on his neck—beasts and vines—shifting with his movement. His voice shifts, sharp and cold, the temptation gone.
“But you’re a worthless little shit,” Gabe says, aggressive. “Maybe I should kill you for this, I definitely want to. I hate faggots like you.”
Tyler’s stomach drops, the fantasy crumbling—Gabe’s face now a mask of danger, not desire. His breath hitches, and he presses harder against the locker, his erection softening.
“Please, no,” he whispers, voice small, shaking, his eyes wide.
Gabe’s hands leave his cock, both slamming against the lockers beside Tyler’s head, caging him in, the tattoos—skulls and demons—looming like a threat. His voice is a low, menacing growl.
“Please,” Gabe says, mocking. “You’re pissing yourself now. Good. You’re just a towel boy—good for nothing but wiping up after us. That’s all you are, a useless lump who can’t do shit else. You handle towels because you’re too pathetic for anything real. You don’t even deserve to be here, just a sad little servant cleaning up our mess.”
Tyler’s heart hammers, the fear swallowing him—Gabe’s smart, a demon in his head, reading his every move. He shakes his head, frantic, his hands clutching the broom.
“No, please, I can’t,” he chokes out, voice breaking, tears prickling his eyes.
Gabe’s hand grips Tyler’s shoulder, the inked fingers digging in hard, his voice a quiet, commanding snarl. He leans in close, his dark eyes boring into Tyler’s, the tattoos on his chest—tigers and skulls—shifting with his breath. His voice drops to a low, deliberate growl, each word dripping with menace.
“Take your clothes off,” Gabe says, his tone icy and unyielding. “I see you staring, you disgusting little pervert. Strip, now. Let’s see that flabby body you’ve been hiding. Move it, or I’ll rip every stitch off myself and leave you crying.”
Tyler’s breath catches in his throat, his heart pounding so hard he feels it in his ears. His hands tremble violently as he stares into Gabe’s unrelenting glare—those dark, hollow eyes, framed by the black hair and inked skin, seem to pierce through him, knowing every fear, every secret. Tears well up, his vision blurring, but he can’t look away, the intensity of Gabe’s stare locking him in place. His fingers fumble with the hem of his t-shirt, the fabric damp and clinging to his slightly chubby frame. He pulls it up slowly, the material stretching over his rounded chest, catching on his soft midsection, the gentle roll of flesh jiggling as he lifts it over his head. The shirt drops to the floor with a wet thud, leaving his pale, pudgy torso exposed, his rounded shoulders shaking, his breath shallow and ragged, each exhale a small sob. Gabe’s eyes don’t move, the tattoos on his arms—demons and chains—seem to writhe as he watches, his glare unblinking, a predator savoring the kill.
Tyler’s hands move to his jeans, his fingers clumsy with fear, the button slipping twice before he gets it undone. He slides the zipper down, the sound loud in the silence, and pushes the jeans down his thicker legs, the denim catching on his sturdy thighs, scraping his skin as he bends to step out. His knees wobble, his breath hitching with every movement, the cold air hitting his exposed legs, his body trembling under Gabe’s piercing gaze. He hesitates at his boxers, his hands hovering, tears spilling down his cheeks as Gabe’s stare intensifies, the inked tigers on his chest seeming to growl. With a choked sob, he tugs the boxers down, the fabric rolling over his soft hips, revealing his slightly chubby ass and shriveled dick, the cold making him shrink further. He steps out, naked, his body quivering—soft belly jiggling slightly, hips flaring with a gentle curve, legs sturdy but untoned—completely exposed under the harsh light, his fear a palpable thing as Gabe looms over him.
Gabe steps closer, his dark eyes raking over Tyler, a sneer twisting his lips. His hand swings out, delivering a sharp, stinging slap to Tyler’s chubby ass, the sound echoing off the lockers, the impact making Tyler yelp and stumble forward, his flesh rippling from the blow. Then Gabe’s inked hand grabs Tyler’s soft stomach, squeezing the chubby flesh hard, his fingers digging into the roll, the tattoos—roses and thorns—pressing into the skin, the pressure painful and degrading.
“Look at this,” Gabe says, voice low and mocking. “Soft and flabby, like a damn cushion. That ass jiggles like jelly, and this gut—disgusting. You’re a sloppy little pig, not even worth the effort.”
Tyler’s skin burns with humiliation, his mind reeling with terror, his body shrinking under Gabe’s grip, the insults cutting deeper than the slap. Gabe releases him, stepping back, his dark eyes cold, the tattoos on his chest—tigers and skulls—glistening. He grabs a towel from the bench, tossing it at Tyler’s feet, the fabric landing with a wet slap.
“Dry me,” Gabe says, flat, standing there, naked, arms loose, dark eyes locking onto Tyler’s—empty, terrifying, unblinking. “Feel what a real man feels like, unlike you.”
Tyler stares at the towel, his hands shaking as he bends to pick it up, the cold floor stinging his bare feet. He steps forward, heart pounding in his chest, terrified, starting at Gabe’s shoulders, the cloth dragging over the tattooed muscle, the heat searing his palms, the ink—skulls and roses—rough against the fabric. Gabe doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stares, his gaze a crushing weight, the tattoos seeming to mock Tyler with every pass. His hands tremble, moving down Gabe’s chest, the ink—tigers and demons—jagged under the towel, every inch a nightmare: the carved abs, the deep V of his hips, the glistening cock and tight ass looming ahead. He pauses, breath ragged, sweat dripping down his face, unsure—afraid to go lower, the cock thick and wet, the veins pulsing, the ass firm and inked with cartoons, both a terror to touch. Gabe’s silence is a threat, his unblinking eyes promising violence, and Tyler’s hands hover, shaking, over the groin, the heat radiating, then to the ass, the muscle unyielding, his mind screaming—will he hit? Kill?—the humiliation of his role as towel boy sinking deeper.
He forces the towel down, grazing the cock, the contact brief but shocking, the skin hot and slick, the ink on Gabe’s thighs—skulls and vines—shifting as he adjusts his stance. Tyler’s breath catches, his hand moving to the ass, the towel brushing the firm curve, the tattoos—cartoon figures and thorns—rough against the fabric, the muscle clenching slightly under his touch. The tension coils tighter—Gabe’s stare intensifies, his dark eyes empty, the silence a blade—and Tyler’s hands falter, unsure if he’s done enough, terrified to linger. He moves back to the chest, then the arms, the ink—angels and chains—taunting him, his movements jerky, the towel quivering.
Gabe’s breath changes, a low, uneven sound, and Tyler glances up, his hands pausing. Gabe’s cock is hardening, the foreskin pulling back to reveal a thick, swollen head, the shaft growing to an intimidating girth—easily two inches wide, the veins bulging like cords under the inked skin of his thighs. The tattoos—skulls and demons—seem to pulse as Gabe’s chest rises faster, his abs tightening, his arousal evident in the slight thrust of his hips. Tyler’s stomach drops, his fear spiking, but Gabe’s lips twitch, a faint, predatory smirk.
“Looks like you’re doing something right,” Gabe says, his voice a low rumble. “Keep touching me, bitch.”
Tyler’s hands freeze, the towel slipping slightly, his mind racing—fear overriding any remnant of fantasy. Gabe steps closer, his thickening cock brushing Tyler’s hand, the heat undeniable, and he grabs Tyler’s wrist, forcing the towel back to his groin. The contact is firm, the cock now fully erect, a heavy, throbbing mass over two inches thick, the head dark and slick, the ink on Gabe’s thighs framing it like a perverse artwork. Tyler’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps, his slightly chubby body trembling.
“Don’t stop,” Gabe says, his voice a snarl, pushing Tyler’s hand lower.
Tyler’s fingers shake, the towel dragging along the length of Gabe’s cock, the skin hot and pulsing, the thickness stretching the fabric, the veins throbbing under his reluctant touch. Gabe groans, a deep, guttural sound, and grabs Tyler’s other hand, guiding it to his ass, the muscle tight and inked, the tattoos—cartoon figures and thorns—rough against the cloth. Tyler’s tears fall, his fear a vise, but Gabe’s grip is iron, forcing him to rub, the ass clenching with each stroke, the ink shifting with the motion.
“Feel that,” Gabe says, his voice thick with arousal. “You’re mine now. Turn around.”
Tyler sobs, his body shaking, but Gabe spins him, pressing his slightly chubby frame against the locker, the cold metal biting into his soft belly and rounded chest. Gabe’s hands grip Tyler’s hips, his fingers digging into the chubby flesh, the inked digits—roses and thorns—leaving red marks. His cock, now a solid, thick rod over two inches wide, presses against Tyler’s ass, the head probing with brutal intent, the veins pulsing against the inked thighs. Gabe growls, a low, animal sound, and thrusts forward, the penetration rough and unrelenting. The thickness—over two inches of solid, unyielding flesh—stretches Tyler painfully, the head forcing its way in with a sharp, tearing sensation, a scream ripping from Tyler’s throat as Gabe’s hips slam against him. The locker rattles, the metal cold against Tyler’s cheek, his slightly chubby ass jiggling with each violent thrust, the pain searing through his core.
“Take it,” Gabe snarls, his thrusts hard and merciless, the thick cock driving deep, each movement a brutal claim. The girth fills Tyler completely, the veins rubbing raw against his insides, the inked thighs slapping against his soft flesh with a wet, punishing rhythm. Gabe’s hands tighten on his hips, the inked fingers bruising, one hand sliding up to grip Tyler’s shoulder, shoving his face harder against the locker, the metal cutting into his cheek. His breath is hot and ragged on Tyler’s neck, his thrusts erratic and forceful, the thickness stretching Tyler to his limit, the friction a burning torment. The tattoos on his chest—tigers and skulls—press against Tyler’s back, the ink seeming to writhe with each brutal motion, Gabe’s grunts growing louder, a primal roar that echoes off the walls.
Gabe’s pace quickens, the thick cock slamming in with a final, vicious thrust, his body tensing as he releases a guttural roar, the hot rush filling Tyler, the sensation overwhelming and invasive. He holds there, the weight of his muscular frame pinning Tyler, the tattoos—demons and chains—pressing into his skin, before pulling out with a rough, jerking motion, leaving Tyler gasping and collapsing to the floor. Tyler’s slightly chubby body hits the tile, the cold a shock against his bruised ass and trembling legs, his soft belly quivering with each sob.
Gabe stands over him, his cock still semi-erect, the tattoos—skulls and vines—glistening with sweat, his dark eyes cold and triumphant. Then, with a sneer, he shifts his stance, and a hot stream of piss arcs from him, splashing onto Tyler’s back, the warm liquid running down his slightly chubby sides, soaking into his soft flesh. The acrid smell fills the air, the degradation complete as it pools around Tyler on the cold floor, his sobs intensifying, his body curling tighter in shame.
“Stay down,” Gabe says, his voice flat, a final insult. “You’re nothing but a used-up towel boy now. A broken little bitch covered in my piss.”
Tyler curls into himself, sobbing uncontrollably, his body aching, the humiliation and fear a permanent scar. Gabe turns, his naked form disappearing into the steam of the showers, leaving Tyler on the cold, wet floor, the locker room’s shadows swallowing the scene, the echoes of his cries fading into the silence.