Extreme Heat: Jock Obsessions Unleashed
Logan stepped into the sleek beach house, the salty ocean breeze whipping through the open doors like a teasing promise. Salt clung to his skin from the surf earlier, mixing with the faint musk of anticipation. He’d changed so much since that wild night with Brock and his entourage—hell, even admitting to himself that ripped athletes like these made his pulse race was a rush. No more pretending; he craved the raw power of their bodies now.
The place hummed with quiet luxury, waves crashing outside like distant thunder. Vanilla candles flickered, their scent twisting with something earthier—Brock’s cologne, maybe. Logan paced the living room, heart hammering. Extreme butterflies knotted his gut; this wasn’t just lust anymore, it was a full-body takeover.
Footsteps echoed from the hall. Brock filled the doorway, shirtless in low-slung board shorts, his tanned abs rippling under the low lights. Those shoulders, broad as a damn doorframe, screamed power. Logan swallowed hard, memories flooding back of Brock’s heat gripping him tight.
Chapter 1: Salt-Kissed Surrender 🔥
Brock closed the distance in two strides, his callused hands sliding up Logan’s back. The touch burned through his thin tee, rough palms scraping just right. “Missed this,” Brock growled, voice low like grinding gravel. His breath was hot against Logan’s ear, carrying whiskey and sea salt.
Logan spun, crashing their mouths together. Tongues tangled fierce, Brock’s stubble rasping Logan’s jaw. Hands roamed—Logan gripping those boulder biceps, Brock yanking Logan’s shirt off, exposing his lean runner’s build. Brock’s erection strained against the shorts, thick and insistent, poking Logan’s thigh.
“Results?” Brock murmured, nipping Logan’s neck. Goosebumps erupted.
“Clean. App on my phone.” Logan’s voice cracked, fingers tracing the V of Brock’s hips.
Brock grinned, that cocky flash of teeth. “Good. ‘Cause I’m done holding back.” He shoved Logan against the glass wall overlooking the beach, the cool pane shocking against heated skin. Moonlight silvered their bodies. Brock dropped to his knees—the Brock, MMA champ, on his knees. His fighter’s hands tugged Logan’s shorts down, freeing his aching hardness.
The first lick was torture. Brock’s tongue swirled the tip, tasting pre-cum with a hum that vibrated straight to Logan’s balls. “Fuck, you taste like the ocean,” Brock said, eyes locking up, dark with hunger. Logan threaded fingers through Brock’s damp blond hair, shorter now after training. He thrust shallow, watching Brock’s lips stretch wide, cheeks hollowing.
Saliva dripped, slick sounds mixing with the surf. Logan’s knees buckled as Brock deep-throated him, nose burying in pubes. Gagging wetly, but determined, throat muscles clenching like a vice. Logan panted, scent of arousal thick—sweat, musk, salt. “Your mouth… so hot.”
Brock pulled off with a pop, strings of spit connecting them. “Want more than this.” He stood, stripping naked. Jesus, that body: pecs like slabs, quads exploding from endless squats. His cock curved up, veiny monster leaking clear fluid.
They stumbled to the couch, leather sticking to sweat-slick backs. Logan pushed Brock down, straddling. But Brock flipped him easy, wrestler strength pinning Logan. “My turn first,” Brock whispered, spitting into his palm, slathering Logan’s hole.
A finger breached—thick, probing. Logan arched, moaning. The stretch burned sweet, prostate sparking fireworks. Brock added another, scissoring, hitting that spot relentless. “Tight as fuck. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”
Logan clawed the cushions, toes curling on the throw rug’s coarse weave. Brock’s free hand jerked them both, foreskins sliding slick. Climax hit Logan like a wave—ropes of cum splattering Brock’s wrist. Brock licked it off, groaning, then flipped Logan onto all fours.
No prep, just Brock’s spit-slick head nudging. Push—Logan gasped, ring yielding to girth. Inch by inch, fullness overwhelming. Brock bottomed out, balls snug against Logan’s. “Take it,” he grunted, hips snapping.
Slaps echoed, flesh on flesh, wet and obscene. Logan’s hole fluttered, gripping. Brock’s sweat dripped onto his back, salty trails. “Harder,” Logan begged, pushing back. Brock obliged, pounding extreme angles, prostate pummeling sending shocks up Logan’s spine.
They collapsed in a tangle, Brock still buried deep as he came, flooding hot. Pulses milked every drop. Panting, they separated with a schlick, cum trickling down Logan’s thighs. Brock pulled him close, lips soft now. “You’re mine, Logan. Don’t forget.”
Logan nodded, heart swelling amid the ache. But doubt flickered—could he handle Brock’s possessive edge?
Chapter 2: Locker Room Ambush
Two days later, Logan’s corporate office felt sterile after their beach haze. Charts blurred on his screen; mind replayed Brock’s grunts. Door clicked shut—Logan startled. Brock loomed, gym bag slung over shoulder, fresh from training. Sweat gleamed on his tank, outlining every ridge.
“Couldn’t wait,” Brock said, locking the door. His eyes devoured Logan, pupils blown. The air thickened with his post-workout reek—musk sharp, addictive.
Logan stood, chair scraping tile. “Here? Now?” Voice husky, already hard.
Brock shrugged massive shoulders. “Need your mouth.” He yanked his shorts’ waistband, freeing his semi-hard length. Thick, veined, foreskin peeled back revealing glistening head.
Logan dropped like gravity pulled him, knees hitting carpet. Taste exploded—salty sweat, tang of exertion. He engulfed, tongue laving the slit. Brock hissed, hand cupping Logan’s skull, guiding deep. Throat bulged; Logan gagged but pushed on, tears pricking.
Brock fucked his face steady, hips rolling. “Yeah, swallow me.” Precum oozed thick; Logan savored the bitterness. Office hum faded—AC vents, distant phones— drowned by slurps and Brock’s ragged breaths.
Hands explored: Logan palming heavy balls, hair-roughened sac contracting. Brock tensed, growling low. “Gonna…” Hot spurts flooded Logan’s throat, creamy and endless. He swallowed convulsively, milking dry.
Brock hauled him up, kissing deep, tasting himself. “Good boy.” They straightened clothes, but Brock’s grip lingered possessive. “See you tonight.”
Logan slumped back to work, lips swollen, buzz lingering. This obsession was spiraling—thrilling, terrifying.
Whispers of Jealousy
Later, scrolling contacts, Logan’s thumb hovered over Tyler’s name. The other fighter from that first chaotic night—Tyler, with skin like polished ebony, thighs like tree trunks. Their brief tangle replayed: Tyler’s moans under Brock, then Logan joining. Extreme guilt twisted; he’d confessed nothing to Brock.
Text pinged—Tyler: Hey man, game this weekend? Need bros. Innocent? Logan’s cock twitched at memories—Tyler’s tight heat clenching.
He deleted, heart racing. Loyalty or lust? Brock’s claim echoed.
Chapter 3: Gear-Fitting Frenzy 💋
A week blurred in stolen moments. Brock dragged Logan to his sponsor’s private studio—custom fight gear, closed for the champ. Dim lights, mirrors everywhere, leather and neoprene scents hanging heavy.
Brock stripped for the fitting, posing nude first. Mirrors multiplied his glory: ass cheeks firm globes, hole winking pink. Logan ogled, mouth watering.
“Eyes up,” Brock teased, snapping fingers. But his grin invited. Logan knelt behind as Brock bent for pants trial, spreading cheeks. Pucker flexed inviting.
Tongue darted—musky tang burst, clean sweat mixed with soap. Brock shivered, palms slapping mirror. “Eat it.”
Logan feasted, spearing deep. Brock ground back, glutes smothering. Wet laps echoed; Brock’s hole softened, greedy. Fingers joined, curling in.
Brock spun, hoist Logan up. Against mirror, Brock dropped trou, slamming home. Glass rattled; reflections showed Logan’s legs wrapped, face contorted bliss. Thrusts brutal, balls smacking.
“Fuck… your hole owns me,” Logan gasped. Brock bit his shoulder, marking. Cum jetted mutual, puddling floor. They panted, foreheads touching amid steam-fogged glass.
“No one else gets this,” Brock murmured. Possessive heat flared—Logan nodded, but Tyler’s text burned in pocket.
Chapter 4: Yacht Inferno
Season opener loomed. Brock’s yacht party roared—bass thumping over waves, champagne fizzing, bodies grinding. Logan blended with the entourage, but eyes sought Brock amid starlets.
Some drunk stumbled into Brock—apology mumbled. Brock shoved hard, guy sprawling. “Watch it, fucker.” Crowd whooped; Logan chilled. Brock’s temper—extreme alpha bullshit.
Up on deck, neon pulsed. Logan nursed a beer, salt wind cooling sweat. Track switched—sultry beats. Tyler appeared across deck, solo, black tee clinging to ripped torso. Thighs strained jeans; bulge prominent. Lights haloed him godly.
Their eyes met. Tyler sauntered over. “Brock chaining you?” Tease laced voice.
Logan flushed. “Nah. Sorry about before—didn’t plan…”
Tyler leaned close, breath minty over ocean brine. “Loved it. Sealed I like dick too. Bi-curious no more.”
Logan’s pulse thundered. “Me too. First tell.” Tyler’s hand brushed arm—electric.
Sudden yank—Brock, face thunderous. Hauls Logan belowdecks to engine room. Diesel hum masks slams. “What the fuck with him?”
Lips crash angry. Brock rips clothes—buttons ping. Pants yanked, Logan’s cock springs. Brock spits lube, fingers plunging.
Engine Room Rage-Fuck
Brock bends Logan over humming generator, hot metal searing palms. Cock breaches—raw, no mercy. “Mine!” Pounds vicious, prostate battered. Logan screams pleasure-pain, ass cheeks rippling impacts.
Sweat pours, mingling grime. Brock’s nails rake back. “Say it.”
“Yours!” Logan breaks, cumming hands-free, splattering deck. Brock roars, seeding deep, twitching walls pulling every drop.
Collapse panting. Brock softens: “Stay away from Tyler.”
Logan bristles. “Jealous? He’s harmless.”
“Mine.” Brock storms out. Logan sits, cum leaking, torn between fire and fear.
Chapter 5: Shower Confession
New scene dawned—post-party haze. Brock’s mansion shower steamed, marble slick. Logan soaped under jets, mind churning Tyler’s words, Brock’s rage.
Door slid. Brock entered naked, cock half-hard. “Talk.”
Water cascaded, beading on muscles. Logan turned, vulnerability raw. “Tyler’s like me—figuring it. Not chasing.”
Brock pressed close, hands soaping Logan’s chest slow. Tension melted under suds. “Hate sharing. You’re different.”
Kiss deepened, cocks grinding soap-slick. Brock knelt, sucking tender now. Logan moaned, fingers in wet hair. Rimming followed—Brock’s beard tickling taint, tongue delving thorough.
They fucked slow against tiles—Logan topping, Brock’s legs hooked. Gentle thrusts built to frenzy, mutual release washing away.
“Together?” Brock asked after.
Logan nodded. Bond tightened, but Tyler loomed shadow.
Chapter 6: Extreme Claiming Ritual 🔥💋
Climax brewed at private fight watch party—dim warehouse, mats reeking sweat and rubber. Brock dominated ring, submission holds crushing. Logan watched, arousal throbbing.
Post-fight, locker room empty. Brock, bruised and glistening, pinned Logan to lockers. “Need you now. Extreme.”
Clothes shredded. Brock 69 first—cocks devoured mutual, balls sucked, gagging symphony. Rolled wrestling—Logan mounted, rimming Brock’s musky cleft, fingers fisting prostate.
Brock flipped dominant. Fists? No—hand breaching slow, four fingers stretching Logan’s hole gaping. “Take my fist, prove.”
Pain bloomed ecstasy; Logan howled, prostate milked dry. Then Brock’s cock—pummeling fist-loosened heat, churning cum inside.
Doggy, missionary frenzy. Slaps, screams, scents overwhelming—cum, ass, sweat. Brock pulled arms back, pile-driving. “Breed me!” Logan flipped, slamming Brock’s extreme tight hole, prostate prodded till Brock erupted untouched.
Logan flooded, bodies quaking. Aftermath: cradled tender, bruises kissed. “No more others. Us.”
Logan whispered, “Us.” Tyler faded—Brock’s possession sealed in ecstasy’s fire. Waves of future heat beckoned endless.
Their sweat cooled, breaths synced. Ocean called distant, but here, in tangled limbs, paradise throbbed alive.
