Two farm boys collide at university
- Thread starter jayson_steyn
- Start date
PouletAuPoivre
Loved Member
Yeah, he does, and his hot roomie needs to fuck him, but that alone isn't going to solve the conflict and the guilt.
Effing Dutch Calvinism.
And the thing is, according to Calvinist teaching, Piet is predestined anyway, so he might as well just embrace it, right?
Yep==he is already going to Hell according to the teaching--so fuck it..
Chapter 30
The Week
The week dragged—lectures piling up for Piet, assignments looming as exams crept closer, his desk a chaos of notes. Jo breezed through, rugby drills eating his days, barely cracking a book since that one forced study session with Piet. Piet stressed double—Viticulture deadlines gnawing at him, Jo’s nonchalance a quiet panic he couldn’t voice. “You’re gonna bomb, bru,” he’d mutter; Jo just grin, “Charm, boet—works every time.”
Wednesday broke routine—one “anytime, no judgment” session after dark. Jo dropped his boxers first, sprawling naked, stroking fast—Piet followed, briefs off, their eyes locking as they jerked. Jo’s load hit his chest, thick and impressive, a groan echoing; Piet’s sprayed his headboard again, powerful, grunting hard. Brown met green, a shared laugh, then silence—once was enough, the week too full.
At lunch on Thursday, the crew sprawled around the table—Jo, mid-bite, stood up, grinning wild. “Braai tomorrow before exams, boets!” The group roared agreement—Matt clapping, Sarah cheering, Piet smirking despite his stress. Friday loomed fast.
Friday Night – The Braai
The quad buzzed by evening, the same vibe as last time—meat sizzling, beers flowing, tunes thumping. Jo tended the fire like a fragile baby, tongs in hand, freckled face glowing, energy crackling. “No one touches this, hey,” he barked, swatting a rugby boy’s hand. Piet hovered near, sipping a Black Label, dry quips keeping the vibe loose, though his eyes flicked to Gillian across the crowd—chatting, flirty, but not his focus.
Byron slid up beside Jo, lean frame casual, voice low. “Hey, Braai Master, we’ve missed you this week.” Jo froze, tongue-tied—a rare crack in his swagger—green eyes darting over his shoulder. Piet was deep in rock talk with a nerd, oblivious. Jo found his words, stumbling. “Ja, bru, been mad—Piet and me, we’re… not a thing, just mates, you know, pushing stuff.” Byron nodded, surprising him with calm. “Me and Matt get it—same deal. You said it yourself, you’re not a couple. Follow your own advice, hey.” Jo blinked, the echo of his own words hitting different from Byron’s mouth, sinking deep.
The braai roared on—meat perfect, Jo crowned Braai Master again, the gang buzzing. He owned the night, Piet his sidekick, their rhythm tight—laughs loud, shoulders brushing, the week’s strain gone. People peeled off slow—Matt and Byron waving, Gillian lingering with Jaco, a hulking front-row rugby guy Piet barely clocked.
Jo expected Piet to drift off with Gillian—his backup plan with Matt and Byron ready—but Piet appeared, face etched with anger Jo hadn’t seen before, brown eyes blazing. He yanked Jo aside, voice low, sharp. “Fok, bru, Gillian’s making out with Jaco—right there, by the trees.” Jo glanced—Jaco’s big frame pinning her, lips locked—and turned back, calming. “Boet, you said slow, hey—you’re not official. Chill.”
Piet fumed, fists clenched, words spitting. “Slow doesn’t mean that kak—I saw her, Jo!” Jo tried reason—“She’s not yours, bru, you didn’t claim her”—then humor—“Least it’s not your headboard this time”—but nothing landed. Piet’s anger boiled, chest heaving, “Let’s go, back to the room.” Jo wasn’t ready—party still alive—but followed, loyal.
In their room, Jo paced, boxers on, trying to defuse. “Piet, man, she’s not your girl—slow, remember?” Piet sat on his bed, briefs tight, fury bubbling. “Fok slow—she kissed him, Jo, after me!” Humour flopped, reason sank—Jo’s tricks failed. Desperate, he grabbed Piet’s shoulders, pulled him into a deep kiss—hard, reckless, lips crashing, a last-ditch spark.
Piet recoiled, breath hitching, anger stalling—brown met green, wide, locked. Then he leaned in, slow, kissing Jo back—soft at first, then hungry, hands gripping Jo’s neck, tongues brushing. Jo’s freckled chest pressed close, Piet’s hairy one heaving, the fury melting into something else, raw and familiar.
They broke apart, panting, eyes still locked. “Fok,” Piet muttered, a half-laugh, anger gone. Jo grinned, crooked. “Needed that, hey?” Piet nodded, slumping back, the storm passing, their bond bending but holding—Gillian a bruise, not a break.
“Fok, ja, I did,” Jo grinned, breathless, their eyes still fixed—green boring into brown, unblinking, electric. Piet’s hand stayed firm on the back of Jo’s neck, fingers digging in, their breaths heavy, ragged, chests heaving in sync. Both cocks strained—rock-hard, pulsing in their underwear, briefs and boxers stretched tight, damp patches spreading from the heat they couldn’t hide.
Jo leaned in first, slow, deliberate—Piet met him halfway, lips crashing again, this kiss deeper, loaded with meaning. It lasted—passionate, tongues tangling, a hungry edge cutting through the anger and the week. Jo’s hand moved, bold, squeezing Piet’s hard cock through his briefs—feeling the thick, damp outline, precum soaking the fabric. Piet groaned, low and raw, head tipping back as Jo broke the kiss, lips trailing hot down his neck—nipping, sucking—then his shoulder, pecks circling his hairy left nipple, teasing the edge.
“Fok,” Piet rasped, voice wrecked, head falling back further, a deep groan rumbling out as Jo’s mouth worked—kissing down his chest, tracing the coarse hair over his abs, slow and deliberate, heat building. Jo reached the elastic of Piet’s tight briefs, Piet’s cock aching beneath, throbbing to break free. In one swift pull, Jo yanked them down—Piet’s cock sprang out, thick and ruddy, flinging a rope of precum across Jo’s freckled face, streaking his cheek.
Jo dropped to his knees, right there in front of his best friend, the hardwood cool under him. Piet’s cock pulsed in his hand—hot, slick, veins bulging—Jo gripping it firm, feeling it twitch. He looked up—Piet’s eyes half-lidded, lost in a trance, jaw slack, no point in words. Jo’s lips parted, taking the fat cockhead into his mouth—warm, wet, sucking slow. Piet’s knees buckled, a sharp “Fok!” escaping as he caught himself, hands flying to the back of Jo’s head, fingers tangling in his blonde mop.
Jo took him deeper—long, slow, the whole length sliding in, Piet’s thick pubes brushing his nose, musky and raw. He started bobbing—steady at first, lips tight, tongue swirling, then picking up speed, sucking harder. Piet’s grip tightened, guiding Jo’s head, hips jerking slightly, groans spilling out—low, guttural, filling the room. Jo’s hands braced Piet’s thighs, freckled fingers digging in, his own cock straining his boxers, leaking as he worked, lost in the rhythm, the heat, the pull of Piet unravelling above him.
Jo’s mouth worked Piet’s cock—long, fast strokes now, lips stretched tight around the thick shaft, tongue flicking the underside, tasting the steady leak of precum. Piet’s hands gripped Jo’s blonde mop harder, fingers knotted, guiding without forcing, his hips twitching forward in jagged little thrusts. “Fok, Jo,” he groaned, voice breaking, head still tipped back, hairy chest heaving as the trance held—brown eyes squeezed shut, lost in the heat tearing through him.
Jo didn’t let up—sucked deeper, throat flexing as he took Piet to the hilt, pubes brushing his nose again, musky and thick. His hands slid up Piet’s thighs—scarred, stocky—squeezing the muscle, steadying him as Piet’s knees wobbled, threatening to give. Jo’s own cock throbbed in his boxers, untouched but hard as steel, precum soaking through, the ache ignored as he focused—hollowing his cheeks, picking up speed, a wet, slick rhythm filling the room.
Piet’s groans turned sharp—grunts punching out, “Fok—fok—Jo—” his grip tightening, hips jerking harder now, chasing it. Jo felt it—the pulse, the swell—Piet’s cock thickening in his mouth, balls drawing up tight against his chin. He doubled down—sucking fierce, tongue pressing the head, one hand slipping to cup Piet’s sac, rolling it gently, pushing him over.
“Fok—I’m—” Piet’s warning choked off, a deep, guttural growl ripping free as he came—hard, sudden, unloading in Jo’s mouth. Hot, thick spurts hit the back of Jo’s throat—pulse after pulse, overwhelming, spilling past his lips as he tried to take it all. Piet’s hips bucked wild, hands locking Jo’s head in place, knees buckling again—Jo holding him up, swallowing what he could, the rest dripping down his chin, streaking his freckled chest.
Piet shuddered, cock twitching through the last waves, cum slowing to a trickle as Jo eased off—lips sliding free, slick with spit and seed, a rope of it stretching then snapping as he pulled back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, panting, green eyes flicking up—Piet’s brown ones half-open now, dazed, chest heaving, a wrecked “Fok” slipping out as he slumped against the bed’s edge, briefs tangled at his ankles.
Jo stayed on his knees a beat, catching his breath—Piet’s cum smeared on his face, his own cock still straining, untouched but pulsing. Their eyes locked again—brown meeting green, heavy, raw—and Jo grinned, crooked and winded. “Needed that, hey?” he rasped, voice rough from the effort.
Piet nodded, a half-laugh breaking through, collapsing fully onto the bed, cock softening against his thigh. “Ja… fok, bru,” he managed, chest still rising fast, the anger burned out, replaced by a haze of release and Jo’s reckless pull.
Piet’s hands slid under Jo’s arms, rough and strong, hauling him up from his knees. Their chests pressed—Piet’s hairy, slick with sweat, Jo’s freckled, smeared with cum—skin sticking as Piet leaned in, kissing him deep. His tongue swept Jo’s mouth, tasting the leftovers of his own load—bitter, thick, lingering on Jo’s lips and chin. Jo groaned into it, hands gripping Piet’s sides, their cocks brushing—Piet’s softening, Jo’s still rock-hard, aching in his boxers. The kiss broke, sloppy and breathless, and Piet collapsed onto his bed—spent, eyes fluttering shut, out cold in seconds. Normally Jo crashed first, but not tonight.
Jo stood there, panting, cock straining his boxers, a wet patch spreading from the untouched need throbbing between his legs. He glanced at Piet—snores soft, steady, dead to the world—and grinned, a restless spark flaring. No way he was sleeping like this. He checked once more—Piet’s chest rising slow—then slipped out, barefoot, wearing only his cum-streaked boxers, hard-on leading the way like a beacon. The hall was dark, quiet, and he ran—pulse racing, adrenaline spiking—straight to Matt and Byron’s room.
He knocked soft, knuckles barely tapping, breath held. After a few seconds, the door cracked—Matt, groggy, hair a mess, blinking into the dim light. His eyes widened, landing on Jo—lust blazing in his green stare, cock tenting his boxers, straining the fabric. “Fok,” Matt muttered, grabbing Jo’s arm, pulling him in fast, the door clicking shut behind.
Matt’s bed was pristine, sheets tucked Byron propped on his elbow in the other which was a mess of crumpled sheets, curious, squinting. When he saw Jo—half-naked, hard, wild—he chuckled low, voice thick with sleep and heat. “There he is… Braai Master in all his glory.” He lifted his sheets, exposing his growing, hairy cock—thick, jutting up from a dark bush—grinning sharp. “Get in here, boy,” he said, patting the mattress. Matt followed close, shedding his own boxers, cock already stiffening as he climbed in behind Jo.
Jo didn’t hesitate—slipped under the sheets, boxers still on but useless, his cock brushing Byron’s thigh as Matt pressed in, sandwiching him. The air crackled—Matt’s hands roaming Jo’s back, Byron’s gripping his hip—three bodies, three hard-ons, the night reigniting in a haze of reckless want.
The Week
The week dragged—lectures piling up for Piet, assignments looming as exams crept closer, his desk a chaos of notes. Jo breezed through, rugby drills eating his days, barely cracking a book since that one forced study session with Piet. Piet stressed double—Viticulture deadlines gnawing at him, Jo’s nonchalance a quiet panic he couldn’t voice. “You’re gonna bomb, bru,” he’d mutter; Jo just grin, “Charm, boet—works every time.”
Wednesday broke routine—one “anytime, no judgment” session after dark. Jo dropped his boxers first, sprawling naked, stroking fast—Piet followed, briefs off, their eyes locking as they jerked. Jo’s load hit his chest, thick and impressive, a groan echoing; Piet’s sprayed his headboard again, powerful, grunting hard. Brown met green, a shared laugh, then silence—once was enough, the week too full.
At lunch on Thursday, the crew sprawled around the table—Jo, mid-bite, stood up, grinning wild. “Braai tomorrow before exams, boets!” The group roared agreement—Matt clapping, Sarah cheering, Piet smirking despite his stress. Friday loomed fast.
Friday Night – The Braai
The quad buzzed by evening, the same vibe as last time—meat sizzling, beers flowing, tunes thumping. Jo tended the fire like a fragile baby, tongs in hand, freckled face glowing, energy crackling. “No one touches this, hey,” he barked, swatting a rugby boy’s hand. Piet hovered near, sipping a Black Label, dry quips keeping the vibe loose, though his eyes flicked to Gillian across the crowd—chatting, flirty, but not his focus.
Byron slid up beside Jo, lean frame casual, voice low. “Hey, Braai Master, we’ve missed you this week.” Jo froze, tongue-tied—a rare crack in his swagger—green eyes darting over his shoulder. Piet was deep in rock talk with a nerd, oblivious. Jo found his words, stumbling. “Ja, bru, been mad—Piet and me, we’re… not a thing, just mates, you know, pushing stuff.” Byron nodded, surprising him with calm. “Me and Matt get it—same deal. You said it yourself, you’re not a couple. Follow your own advice, hey.” Jo blinked, the echo of his own words hitting different from Byron’s mouth, sinking deep.
The braai roared on—meat perfect, Jo crowned Braai Master again, the gang buzzing. He owned the night, Piet his sidekick, their rhythm tight—laughs loud, shoulders brushing, the week’s strain gone. People peeled off slow—Matt and Byron waving, Gillian lingering with Jaco, a hulking front-row rugby guy Piet barely clocked.
Jo expected Piet to drift off with Gillian—his backup plan with Matt and Byron ready—but Piet appeared, face etched with anger Jo hadn’t seen before, brown eyes blazing. He yanked Jo aside, voice low, sharp. “Fok, bru, Gillian’s making out with Jaco—right there, by the trees.” Jo glanced—Jaco’s big frame pinning her, lips locked—and turned back, calming. “Boet, you said slow, hey—you’re not official. Chill.”
Piet fumed, fists clenched, words spitting. “Slow doesn’t mean that kak—I saw her, Jo!” Jo tried reason—“She’s not yours, bru, you didn’t claim her”—then humor—“Least it’s not your headboard this time”—but nothing landed. Piet’s anger boiled, chest heaving, “Let’s go, back to the room.” Jo wasn’t ready—party still alive—but followed, loyal.
In their room, Jo paced, boxers on, trying to defuse. “Piet, man, she’s not your girl—slow, remember?” Piet sat on his bed, briefs tight, fury bubbling. “Fok slow—she kissed him, Jo, after me!” Humour flopped, reason sank—Jo’s tricks failed. Desperate, he grabbed Piet’s shoulders, pulled him into a deep kiss—hard, reckless, lips crashing, a last-ditch spark.
Piet recoiled, breath hitching, anger stalling—brown met green, wide, locked. Then he leaned in, slow, kissing Jo back—soft at first, then hungry, hands gripping Jo’s neck, tongues brushing. Jo’s freckled chest pressed close, Piet’s hairy one heaving, the fury melting into something else, raw and familiar.
They broke apart, panting, eyes still locked. “Fok,” Piet muttered, a half-laugh, anger gone. Jo grinned, crooked. “Needed that, hey?” Piet nodded, slumping back, the storm passing, their bond bending but holding—Gillian a bruise, not a break.
“Fok, ja, I did,” Jo grinned, breathless, their eyes still fixed—green boring into brown, unblinking, electric. Piet’s hand stayed firm on the back of Jo’s neck, fingers digging in, their breaths heavy, ragged, chests heaving in sync. Both cocks strained—rock-hard, pulsing in their underwear, briefs and boxers stretched tight, damp patches spreading from the heat they couldn’t hide.
Jo leaned in first, slow, deliberate—Piet met him halfway, lips crashing again, this kiss deeper, loaded with meaning. It lasted—passionate, tongues tangling, a hungry edge cutting through the anger and the week. Jo’s hand moved, bold, squeezing Piet’s hard cock through his briefs—feeling the thick, damp outline, precum soaking the fabric. Piet groaned, low and raw, head tipping back as Jo broke the kiss, lips trailing hot down his neck—nipping, sucking—then his shoulder, pecks circling his hairy left nipple, teasing the edge.
“Fok,” Piet rasped, voice wrecked, head falling back further, a deep groan rumbling out as Jo’s mouth worked—kissing down his chest, tracing the coarse hair over his abs, slow and deliberate, heat building. Jo reached the elastic of Piet’s tight briefs, Piet’s cock aching beneath, throbbing to break free. In one swift pull, Jo yanked them down—Piet’s cock sprang out, thick and ruddy, flinging a rope of precum across Jo’s freckled face, streaking his cheek.
Jo dropped to his knees, right there in front of his best friend, the hardwood cool under him. Piet’s cock pulsed in his hand—hot, slick, veins bulging—Jo gripping it firm, feeling it twitch. He looked up—Piet’s eyes half-lidded, lost in a trance, jaw slack, no point in words. Jo’s lips parted, taking the fat cockhead into his mouth—warm, wet, sucking slow. Piet’s knees buckled, a sharp “Fok!” escaping as he caught himself, hands flying to the back of Jo’s head, fingers tangling in his blonde mop.
Jo took him deeper—long, slow, the whole length sliding in, Piet’s thick pubes brushing his nose, musky and raw. He started bobbing—steady at first, lips tight, tongue swirling, then picking up speed, sucking harder. Piet’s grip tightened, guiding Jo’s head, hips jerking slightly, groans spilling out—low, guttural, filling the room. Jo’s hands braced Piet’s thighs, freckled fingers digging in, his own cock straining his boxers, leaking as he worked, lost in the rhythm, the heat, the pull of Piet unravelling above him.
Jo’s mouth worked Piet’s cock—long, fast strokes now, lips stretched tight around the thick shaft, tongue flicking the underside, tasting the steady leak of precum. Piet’s hands gripped Jo’s blonde mop harder, fingers knotted, guiding without forcing, his hips twitching forward in jagged little thrusts. “Fok, Jo,” he groaned, voice breaking, head still tipped back, hairy chest heaving as the trance held—brown eyes squeezed shut, lost in the heat tearing through him.
Jo didn’t let up—sucked deeper, throat flexing as he took Piet to the hilt, pubes brushing his nose again, musky and thick. His hands slid up Piet’s thighs—scarred, stocky—squeezing the muscle, steadying him as Piet’s knees wobbled, threatening to give. Jo’s own cock throbbed in his boxers, untouched but hard as steel, precum soaking through, the ache ignored as he focused—hollowing his cheeks, picking up speed, a wet, slick rhythm filling the room.
Piet’s groans turned sharp—grunts punching out, “Fok—fok—Jo—” his grip tightening, hips jerking harder now, chasing it. Jo felt it—the pulse, the swell—Piet’s cock thickening in his mouth, balls drawing up tight against his chin. He doubled down—sucking fierce, tongue pressing the head, one hand slipping to cup Piet’s sac, rolling it gently, pushing him over.
“Fok—I’m—” Piet’s warning choked off, a deep, guttural growl ripping free as he came—hard, sudden, unloading in Jo’s mouth. Hot, thick spurts hit the back of Jo’s throat—pulse after pulse, overwhelming, spilling past his lips as he tried to take it all. Piet’s hips bucked wild, hands locking Jo’s head in place, knees buckling again—Jo holding him up, swallowing what he could, the rest dripping down his chin, streaking his freckled chest.
Piet shuddered, cock twitching through the last waves, cum slowing to a trickle as Jo eased off—lips sliding free, slick with spit and seed, a rope of it stretching then snapping as he pulled back. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, panting, green eyes flicking up—Piet’s brown ones half-open now, dazed, chest heaving, a wrecked “Fok” slipping out as he slumped against the bed’s edge, briefs tangled at his ankles.
Jo stayed on his knees a beat, catching his breath—Piet’s cum smeared on his face, his own cock still straining, untouched but pulsing. Their eyes locked again—brown meeting green, heavy, raw—and Jo grinned, crooked and winded. “Needed that, hey?” he rasped, voice rough from the effort.
Piet nodded, a half-laugh breaking through, collapsing fully onto the bed, cock softening against his thigh. “Ja… fok, bru,” he managed, chest still rising fast, the anger burned out, replaced by a haze of release and Jo’s reckless pull.
Piet’s hands slid under Jo’s arms, rough and strong, hauling him up from his knees. Their chests pressed—Piet’s hairy, slick with sweat, Jo’s freckled, smeared with cum—skin sticking as Piet leaned in, kissing him deep. His tongue swept Jo’s mouth, tasting the leftovers of his own load—bitter, thick, lingering on Jo’s lips and chin. Jo groaned into it, hands gripping Piet’s sides, their cocks brushing—Piet’s softening, Jo’s still rock-hard, aching in his boxers. The kiss broke, sloppy and breathless, and Piet collapsed onto his bed—spent, eyes fluttering shut, out cold in seconds. Normally Jo crashed first, but not tonight.
Jo stood there, panting, cock straining his boxers, a wet patch spreading from the untouched need throbbing between his legs. He glanced at Piet—snores soft, steady, dead to the world—and grinned, a restless spark flaring. No way he was sleeping like this. He checked once more—Piet’s chest rising slow—then slipped out, barefoot, wearing only his cum-streaked boxers, hard-on leading the way like a beacon. The hall was dark, quiet, and he ran—pulse racing, adrenaline spiking—straight to Matt and Byron’s room.
He knocked soft, knuckles barely tapping, breath held. After a few seconds, the door cracked—Matt, groggy, hair a mess, blinking into the dim light. His eyes widened, landing on Jo—lust blazing in his green stare, cock tenting his boxers, straining the fabric. “Fok,” Matt muttered, grabbing Jo’s arm, pulling him in fast, the door clicking shut behind.
Matt’s bed was pristine, sheets tucked Byron propped on his elbow in the other which was a mess of crumpled sheets, curious, squinting. When he saw Jo—half-naked, hard, wild—he chuckled low, voice thick with sleep and heat. “There he is… Braai Master in all his glory.” He lifted his sheets, exposing his growing, hairy cock—thick, jutting up from a dark bush—grinning sharp. “Get in here, boy,” he said, patting the mattress. Matt followed close, shedding his own boxers, cock already stiffening as he climbed in behind Jo.
Jo didn’t hesitate—slipped under the sheets, boxers still on but useless, his cock brushing Byron’s thigh as Matt pressed in, sandwiching him. The air crackled—Matt’s hands roaming Jo’s back, Byron’s gripping his hip—three bodies, three hard-ons, the night reigniting in a haze of reckless want.
Chapter 31
Jo slid under the sheets, boxers stretched tight, cock throbbing as Matt and Byron closed in—Matt behind, Byron ahead, the bed a tangle of heat. Matt’s hands moved first, rough and eager, focusing on Jo’s ass—sliding down his back, palming his cheeks through the fabric. “Fok, this ass,” Matt muttered, voice low, peeling Jo’s boxers down slow, exposing the tight, freckled curves. He rubbed—firm, teasing—thumbs circling the flesh, then spread them wide, Jo’s hole bared, a soft grunt escaping him as the cool air hit.
Matt dove in—lips kissing the crease, tongue flicking out, hot and wet, tracing Jo’s rim. Jo’s hips bucked, a choked “Fok” slipping free as Matt ate him out—slow at first, lapping long and deep, then faster, sucking, tongue probing inside. Jo’s knees shook, ass lifting, pushing back into Matt’s face, Matt’s hairy chest pressed to his thighs, hands gripping harder—spreading, kneading. He pulled back, spit-slick, and slid a finger in—slow, thick, curling against Jo’s spot, then a second, pumping steady, stretching him open.
Byron took the front—lean frame shifting, lips closing over Jo’s cock—hard, leaking, the pink tip vanishing into his mouth. He sucked deep—one of the best blowjobs Jo’d ever had—tongue swirling the head, lips tight, sliding to the base, throat flexing around him. His hand cupped Jo’s balls, rolling them gentle but firm, tugging just right, a rhythm that synced with Matt’s fingers—Jo caught between, moaning loud, “Fok—fok—yes.” Byron’s free hand stroked his own hairy cock, eyes flicking up, watching Jo unravel.
It hit fast—Jo’s body locked, ass clenching Matt’s fingers, cock pulsing in Byron’s mouth. “Gonna—” he gasped, cut off as he came—hard, quick, a torrent blasting down Byron’s throat, thick ropes spilling past his lips as he sucked through it, swallowing what he could. Matt’s fingers thrust deeper, riding the spasms, Jo’s hips jerking wild, cum streaking Byron’s chin, a messy flood that left him trembling, wrecked.
Jo slumped, panting, chest heaving—Matt pulling his fingers free, Byron wiping his mouth, both grinning, no judgment in their eyes. “Fok, Braai Master, you’re quick tonight,” Matt teased, clapping Jo’s ass. Byron nodded, stroking himself still. “Get back to Piet, hey—no worries here.” They understood—Jo’s need to bolt, their own buzz still humming.
Jo scrambled up, boxers yanked on, cock softening but slick, and scurried out—Matt and Byron’s low laughs following, their hands already on each other as the door shut. The hall blurred, Jo’s bare feet slapping tile, heart pounding as he slipped back into their room.
Piet snored peacefully—sprawled in his briefs, cum crusted on his chest from earlier, blissfully out. Jo climbed into his own bed, boxers clinging, the buzz fading into a pang of guilt—sharp, heavy in his gut. Another secret—Matt and Byron’s hands, mouths, the wild release—stacked on the pile he kept from Piet. He stared at Piet’s sleeping form, freckled chest rising slow, and pulled the sheet up, the thrill souring. Gillian had pissed Piet off, but this—Jo’s backup plan—felt like a deeper cut. He lay still, green eyes on the ceiling, guilt gnawing as Piet slept on, oblivious.
Jo slid under the sheets, boxers stretched tight, cock throbbing as Matt and Byron closed in—Matt behind, Byron ahead, the bed a tangle of heat. Matt’s hands moved first, rough and eager, focusing on Jo’s ass—sliding down his back, palming his cheeks through the fabric. “Fok, this ass,” Matt muttered, voice low, peeling Jo’s boxers down slow, exposing the tight, freckled curves. He rubbed—firm, teasing—thumbs circling the flesh, then spread them wide, Jo’s hole bared, a soft grunt escaping him as the cool air hit.
Matt dove in—lips kissing the crease, tongue flicking out, hot and wet, tracing Jo’s rim. Jo’s hips bucked, a choked “Fok” slipping free as Matt ate him out—slow at first, lapping long and deep, then faster, sucking, tongue probing inside. Jo’s knees shook, ass lifting, pushing back into Matt’s face, Matt’s hairy chest pressed to his thighs, hands gripping harder—spreading, kneading. He pulled back, spit-slick, and slid a finger in—slow, thick, curling against Jo’s spot, then a second, pumping steady, stretching him open.
Byron took the front—lean frame shifting, lips closing over Jo’s cock—hard, leaking, the pink tip vanishing into his mouth. He sucked deep—one of the best blowjobs Jo’d ever had—tongue swirling the head, lips tight, sliding to the base, throat flexing around him. His hand cupped Jo’s balls, rolling them gentle but firm, tugging just right, a rhythm that synced with Matt’s fingers—Jo caught between, moaning loud, “Fok—fok—yes.” Byron’s free hand stroked his own hairy cock, eyes flicking up, watching Jo unravel.
It hit fast—Jo’s body locked, ass clenching Matt’s fingers, cock pulsing in Byron’s mouth. “Gonna—” he gasped, cut off as he came—hard, quick, a torrent blasting down Byron’s throat, thick ropes spilling past his lips as he sucked through it, swallowing what he could. Matt’s fingers thrust deeper, riding the spasms, Jo’s hips jerking wild, cum streaking Byron’s chin, a messy flood that left him trembling, wrecked.
Jo slumped, panting, chest heaving—Matt pulling his fingers free, Byron wiping his mouth, both grinning, no judgment in their eyes. “Fok, Braai Master, you’re quick tonight,” Matt teased, clapping Jo’s ass. Byron nodded, stroking himself still. “Get back to Piet, hey—no worries here.” They understood—Jo’s need to bolt, their own buzz still humming.
Jo scrambled up, boxers yanked on, cock softening but slick, and scurried out—Matt and Byron’s low laughs following, their hands already on each other as the door shut. The hall blurred, Jo’s bare feet slapping tile, heart pounding as he slipped back into their room.
Piet snored peacefully—sprawled in his briefs, cum crusted on his chest from earlier, blissfully out. Jo climbed into his own bed, boxers clinging, the buzz fading into a pang of guilt—sharp, heavy in his gut. Another secret—Matt and Byron’s hands, mouths, the wild release—stacked on the pile he kept from Piet. He stared at Piet’s sleeping form, freckled chest rising slow, and pulled the sheet up, the thrill souring. Gillian had pissed Piet off, but this—Jo’s backup plan—felt like a deeper cut. He lay still, green eyes on the ceiling, guilt gnawing as Piet slept on, oblivious.
Chapter 32
Piet woke first, sunlight slicing through the blinds, his body heavy but his mood lighter—anger burned out, replaced by something new. He rolled onto his side, brown eyes landing on Jo—sprawled in his boxers, freckled chest rising slow, still asleep. A feeling he’d never clocked before hit him, soft but deep. Jo had ditched the braai last night—left the party he’d ruled, the fire he’d babied—to be with Piet when Gillian’s kiss with Jaco had lit him up. Then the kiss—fierce, reckless—then… fok, what happened next, Jo on his knees, Piet unraveling. Jo cared—really cared, not just in the wild, boundary-pushing way, but in a way that stuck. That was something, wasn’t it?
Jo must’ve felt the weight of Piet’s gaze—green eyes fluttered open, groggy, hungover haze clouding them. His mind twisted—Matt and Byron’s hands, mouths, that quick, hard cum—but his face stayed blank, guilt buried deep. He faked a burst of energy, propping up on an elbow, matching Piet’s stare with a grin. “Enjoying the view, big guy?” he teased, voice rough but playful, hiding everything.
Piet snapped back, chuckling, the new feeling jolting into place. “You really do make a joke of everything, hey,” he said, laughing low, shaking his head. Jo’s grin widened, stretching out. “Mood’s better, bru—last night fix you up?”
Piet shrugged, a crooked smile tugging. “After last night, how could it not?” The kiss, Jo’s mouth, the release—it’d scrubbed Gillian’s betrayal clean, left him steady. He sat up, briefs tight, and clapped his hands. “No time for lazing, boet—showers, then we’re hitting the books. Exams next week.”
Jo groaned, flopping back, sheet slipping low. “That’s your plan, not mine—I’m not feeling it.” His green eyes glinted, dodging, the Matt-Byron secret a quiet itch he wouldn’t scratch here.
Piet’s stress spiked—next-level now, Jo’s slacking a splinter under his skin. “Boet, you need to study,” he said, voice tight, standing, hands on hips. “How the fok are you even passing?”
Jo chuckled, stretching, boxers riding lower, that cocky grin flashing. “Charm, bru—works every time.” He rolled out of bed, grabbing his towel, sauntering past Piet with a shoulder bump—playful, deflecting, leaving Piet’s stress unanswered.
Piet sighed, watching Jo’s freckled back head for the door, towel slung low. The care he’d felt minutes ago clashed with the worry—Jo’s charm wouldn’t ace exams, but last night proved he’d drop it all for Piet. That held, even if the books didn’t. “Fokkin circus,” Piet muttered, grabbing his own towel, following slow, the morning settling into their messy, steady groove.
Piet woke first, sunlight slicing through the blinds, his body heavy but his mood lighter—anger burned out, replaced by something new. He rolled onto his side, brown eyes landing on Jo—sprawled in his boxers, freckled chest rising slow, still asleep. A feeling he’d never clocked before hit him, soft but deep. Jo had ditched the braai last night—left the party he’d ruled, the fire he’d babied—to be with Piet when Gillian’s kiss with Jaco had lit him up. Then the kiss—fierce, reckless—then… fok, what happened next, Jo on his knees, Piet unraveling. Jo cared—really cared, not just in the wild, boundary-pushing way, but in a way that stuck. That was something, wasn’t it?
Jo must’ve felt the weight of Piet’s gaze—green eyes fluttered open, groggy, hungover haze clouding them. His mind twisted—Matt and Byron’s hands, mouths, that quick, hard cum—but his face stayed blank, guilt buried deep. He faked a burst of energy, propping up on an elbow, matching Piet’s stare with a grin. “Enjoying the view, big guy?” he teased, voice rough but playful, hiding everything.
Piet snapped back, chuckling, the new feeling jolting into place. “You really do make a joke of everything, hey,” he said, laughing low, shaking his head. Jo’s grin widened, stretching out. “Mood’s better, bru—last night fix you up?”
Piet shrugged, a crooked smile tugging. “After last night, how could it not?” The kiss, Jo’s mouth, the release—it’d scrubbed Gillian’s betrayal clean, left him steady. He sat up, briefs tight, and clapped his hands. “No time for lazing, boet—showers, then we’re hitting the books. Exams next week.”
Jo groaned, flopping back, sheet slipping low. “That’s your plan, not mine—I’m not feeling it.” His green eyes glinted, dodging, the Matt-Byron secret a quiet itch he wouldn’t scratch here.
Piet’s stress spiked—next-level now, Jo’s slacking a splinter under his skin. “Boet, you need to study,” he said, voice tight, standing, hands on hips. “How the fok are you even passing?”
Jo chuckled, stretching, boxers riding lower, that cocky grin flashing. “Charm, bru—works every time.” He rolled out of bed, grabbing his towel, sauntering past Piet with a shoulder bump—playful, deflecting, leaving Piet’s stress unanswered.
Piet sighed, watching Jo’s freckled back head for the door, towel slung low. The care he’d felt minutes ago clashed with the worry—Jo’s charm wouldn’t ace exams, but last night proved he’d drop it all for Piet. That held, even if the books didn’t. “Fokkin circus,” Piet muttered, grabbing his own towel, following slow, the morning settling into their messy, steady groove.
PouletAuPoivre
Loved Member
Chapter 33
Exam week hit like a storm, and Piet was drowning. Sunlight barely breached the blinds, but he was already up—stocky frame hunched over his desk, briefs tight, surrounded by Viticulture notes, textbooks splayed, pens bleeding ink into margins. His brown eyes darted, bloodshot from a restless night, stress coiling tight in his chest—assignments done, but the first test loomed tomorrow, and he couldn’t shake the buzz of anxiety. He needed a release, something to burn it off—rugby, a run, anything—but the clock mocked him, ticking down to Tuesday’s grind.
Jo, sprawled in his boxers across the room, slept like the world wasn’t ending—freckled chest rising slow, one arm flung off the bed, rugby ball cradled loose in his hand. He stirred late, green eyes blinking open to Piet’s pacing, and grinned, stretching slow, unbothered. “Morning, bru—still alive over there?” he teased, voice rough but light, rolling out of bed with that easy swagger.
Piet shot him a look, hands raking his short hair. “Barely, boet—how the fok are you so chill? Exams start tomorrow.” His tone bit sharper than he meant, stress spilling over, a nagging guilt festering—Jo was hiding something, he could feel it. Not the full picture, not Matt and Byron (that stayed buried, Jo’s secret locked tight), but something about this—the studying, or lack of it. Piet hadn’t seen Jo crack a book since that forced session, yet here he was, tossing that damn rugby ball like it’d ace his tests.
Jo chuckled, catching the ball mid-air as he stood, boxers low, ginger fuzz peeking out. “Charm, bru—told you, it’s my superpower.” He lobbed the ball to Piet, playful, then grabbed his towel. “Gonna throw this outside—wanna join? Burn off that frown?” His green eyes glinted, protective now—clocking Piet’s tension, stepping up in his new role, looking out.
Piet caught the ball, gripping it hard, knuckles white. “Fok, Jo—how you spending more time chucking this than cramming? You hiding a cheat sheet or something?” The suspicion slipped out—half-joke, half-needle—guilt twisting it. Jo’s ease gnawed at him; he couldn’t square it with the stakes.
Jo grinned wider, shrugging it off, towel over his shoulder. “No cheats, boet—just flow. You’re stressing enough for both of us—c’mon, ten minutes outside, then you can bury yourself in that kak again.” He bumped Piet’s arm, heading for the door, voice softer now. “Can’t have you cracking before Tuesday, hey.”
Piet sighed, tossing the ball back, briefs chafing as he paced. “Ja, fine—ten minutes.” He grabbed his shorts, following Jo out, the fresh air a brief lure to burn off the buzz—but that nagging feeling stuck, a splinter he couldn’t dig out. Jo bounced ahead, rugby ball spinning in his hands, relaxed as ever—Piet trailing, stress simmering, suspicion brewing, blind to the bigger secrets Jo carried.
Exam week hit like a storm, and Piet was drowning. Sunlight barely breached the blinds, but he was already up—stocky frame hunched over his desk, briefs tight, surrounded by Viticulture notes, textbooks splayed, pens bleeding ink into margins. His brown eyes darted, bloodshot from a restless night, stress coiling tight in his chest—assignments done, but the first test loomed tomorrow, and he couldn’t shake the buzz of anxiety. He needed a release, something to burn it off—rugby, a run, anything—but the clock mocked him, ticking down to Tuesday’s grind.
Jo, sprawled in his boxers across the room, slept like the world wasn’t ending—freckled chest rising slow, one arm flung off the bed, rugby ball cradled loose in his hand. He stirred late, green eyes blinking open to Piet’s pacing, and grinned, stretching slow, unbothered. “Morning, bru—still alive over there?” he teased, voice rough but light, rolling out of bed with that easy swagger.
Piet shot him a look, hands raking his short hair. “Barely, boet—how the fok are you so chill? Exams start tomorrow.” His tone bit sharper than he meant, stress spilling over, a nagging guilt festering—Jo was hiding something, he could feel it. Not the full picture, not Matt and Byron (that stayed buried, Jo’s secret locked tight), but something about this—the studying, or lack of it. Piet hadn’t seen Jo crack a book since that forced session, yet here he was, tossing that damn rugby ball like it’d ace his tests.
Jo chuckled, catching the ball mid-air as he stood, boxers low, ginger fuzz peeking out. “Charm, bru—told you, it’s my superpower.” He lobbed the ball to Piet, playful, then grabbed his towel. “Gonna throw this outside—wanna join? Burn off that frown?” His green eyes glinted, protective now—clocking Piet’s tension, stepping up in his new role, looking out.
Piet caught the ball, gripping it hard, knuckles white. “Fok, Jo—how you spending more time chucking this than cramming? You hiding a cheat sheet or something?” The suspicion slipped out—half-joke, half-needle—guilt twisting it. Jo’s ease gnawed at him; he couldn’t square it with the stakes.
Jo grinned wider, shrugging it off, towel over his shoulder. “No cheats, boet—just flow. You’re stressing enough for both of us—c’mon, ten minutes outside, then you can bury yourself in that kak again.” He bumped Piet’s arm, heading for the door, voice softer now. “Can’t have you cracking before Tuesday, hey.”
Piet sighed, tossing the ball back, briefs chafing as he paced. “Ja, fine—ten minutes.” He grabbed his shorts, following Jo out, the fresh air a brief lure to burn off the buzz—but that nagging feeling stuck, a splinter he couldn’t dig out. Jo bounced ahead, rugby ball spinning in his hands, relaxed as ever—Piet trailing, stress simmering, suspicion brewing, blind to the bigger secrets Jo carried.
Chapter 34
The two weeks of exams were a slow bleed for Piet—torture in every tick of the clock. He crammed like a machine, desk buried under Viticulture notes, textbooks splayed open, margins bleeding red ink from frantic scribbles. Sleep was a ghost—snatched in jagged bursts, his stocky frame slumped over books past midnight, briefs soaked with stress sweat, brown eyes bloodshot and darting. Each exam—five in total—loomed like a guillotine, slicing closer; post-test, his anxiety spiked through the roof, replaying every question, every blank he’d fumbled, convinced he’d bombed.
Jo, though, floated through—reckless, freckled, infuriatingly relaxed, energy buzzing higher than ever. Rugby drills ate his days, the ball spinning in his hands between classes, boxers slung low as he sauntered from exam to exam, green eyes bright, unbothered. He’d tried dragging Piet into his orbit—one night, second week, sprawled naked on his bed, cock hard for an “anytime, no judgment” session. “Let off steam, boet,” he’d joked, stroking slow, grinning wicked. Piet, briefs tight, groaned—“Fok, Jo, I can’t”—and buried his head back in notes, though his cock twitched, tempted, watching Jo’s load hit his chest, a casual laugh before he rolled over, snoring fast. Piet stewed, resisting.
After each exam, Piet’s panic roared—“How’d it go, bru?”—met with Jo’s breezy “Ja, fine,” every damn time, no sweat, no doubt. Piet’s suspicion hardened into a blade—Jo wasn’t a genius, no way he was coasting without something. He hadn’t cracked a book since that one forced session, yet here he was, tossing that rugby ball like it’d ace Ag Econ. Money? Jo’s family had land, old ties—bribes to profs? A favor owed from some farm deal? Or Jo himself—cheating, charming lecturers, some trick Piet couldn’t pin? The guilt of doubting his best mate twisted, but the evidence—Jo’s ease, the ball over books—stacked too high. Piet needed answers, but where the fok did he look?
Friday
The last exam hit Friday—Piet staggering out of the hall, brain a fried mess, hands trembling, muttering, “Fok, if I passed that…” Jo bounced beside him, rugby ball spinning, grinning wide. “Done, bru—fokkin finally!” Piet grimaced, stress still clawing, but Jo clapped his shoulder, protective now. “You’re golden, boet—now, braai tonight. End of exams, end of all braais.” He’d planned it mid-week—a blowout to cap the term, the quad booked, meat sourced from every corner, beers stacked high, word spread like wildfire.
By evening, the quad was a live wire—electric, pulsing with release. Smoke curled thick from Jo’s fire, a towering beast of coals he tended like a firstborn—tongs in hand, shirt unbuttoned, freckled chest bare beneath, sweat beading as he flipped chops, boerewors, chicken thighs, the sizzle loud over the thumping Afrikaans rock blasting from a speaker. Thirty-plus showed—rugby boys hollering, rock nerds cracking cans, stragglers weaving in—sprawled on blankets, leaning on crates, the air thick with meat, beer, and freedom. Fairy lights strung haphazardly twinkled overhead, casting a warm glow, empty Black Label cans piling into a wobbly pyramid some genius had started. Laughter ricocheted—Henk arm-wrestling a rugby mate, Sarah dancing with Gillian, the vibe raw, chaotic, alive.
Jo ruled it—Braai Master in full glory, barking, “No one touches this fire, hey!” as a drunk rock nerd stumbled too close, tongs swatting air. Piet hovered near, jeans swapped for shorts, sipping a beer, dry quips—“Don’t burn the quad down, circus”—cutting through Jo’s wild energy, grounding it. Matt and Byron rolled in—Matt’s “Braai Master!” booming, clapping Jo’s back, hairy chest bare under an open shirt, Byron’s lean frame slinking up, smirking, “Missed you, bru.” Jo grinned, flipping a chop, green eyes glinting—tension sparking as Matt’s hand lingered on his shoulder, Byron’s gaze tracing his sweat-slick neck. Sexual heat flickered—Jo leaning into Matt’s touch, a flirty “Keep missing me, boet,” tossed back, Byron’s low chuckle edging it on.
Piet caught Jo too—mid-flip, their eyes locked, brown on green, and Jo winked, tongs raised, “Keeping it hot for you, hey.” Piet smirked, sipping, a jolt hitting his briefs—flirting, familiar, their pull alive in the chaos. But suspicion gnawed harder—Jo tossing that ball all week, “Ja, fine” after every exam, no books, no stress. Something’s up, Piet thought, beer cold in his hand, eyes narrowing.
He slid over to Henk—mutual mate, rugby boy with a sharp mind—leaning on a crate, sipping. “Oi, Henk,” Piet said, casual but probing, “Jo’s too chill, hey—exams, no studying, just… fine. You reckon he’s up to something?” Henk raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Bru, you think he’s rigging it? Jo’s no brainiac—maybe his old man paid off a prof, farm money talks.” Piet frowned, nodding slow. “Ja, maybe—or a favour, some debt from back home.”
Henk laughed, downing his beer. “Or he’s shagging a lecturer—charm’s his thing, hey. Picture it—Jo, boxers low, winking his way to an A.” Piet snorted, but the rabbit hole yawned. “Fok, or he’s got a stash of old tests—stole ‘em from somewhere, cheeky bastard.” Henk’s eyes lit up, absurd now. “Or hypnosis—convinced the markers he’s Einstein, waving that rugby ball like a wand.” They cackled, each theory wilder—Jo blackmailing with farm secrets, Jo a secret genius playing dumb—Piet’s suspicion spiralling, half-serious, half-laughing, no answers sticking.
The braai roared on—meat piled high, Jo plating chops with flair, cheers raining down, “Braai Master!” echoing. Gillian danced with Jaco, Piet’s jaw tightening but letting it slide—slow was dead. Matt brushed Jo’s arm, passing a beer, fingers grazing—Jo’s grin flirty, “Cheers, hairy,” tension thick. Byron leaned in, whispering something, Jo laughing low, green eyes darting to Piet—then back, a tease in his stare, “Keeping it warm, bru,” tossed his way. Piet felt it—cock twitching, Jo’s pull tugging, Matt and Byron’s heat a shadow he didn’t see.
People drifted off—Henk stumbling, Sarah waving—the fire dying to embers, Jo expecting Piet to peel away, maybe chase Gillian, his backup plan with Matt and Byron simmering. But Piet stayed, anger flaring once over Gillian then fading—brown eyes locked on Jo, steady, choosing him. “Fok that, bru—night’s ours,” he said, clapping Jo’s shoulder, voice firm, brushing off the drama for their groove.
The night thinned—Jo torn, eyes flicking—Matt and Byron lingering, Matt’s hand brushing his back, a husky “Later, Braai Master?” Byron’s smirk promising more, sheets waiting; Piet beside him, solid, brown eyes soft, a flirty “Best mate’s privilege, hey,” pulling deep, their bond electric in the dying light. Jo grinned, decision hanging—were to end the party?
The two weeks of exams were a slow bleed for Piet—torture in every tick of the clock. He crammed like a machine, desk buried under Viticulture notes, textbooks splayed open, margins bleeding red ink from frantic scribbles. Sleep was a ghost—snatched in jagged bursts, his stocky frame slumped over books past midnight, briefs soaked with stress sweat, brown eyes bloodshot and darting. Each exam—five in total—loomed like a guillotine, slicing closer; post-test, his anxiety spiked through the roof, replaying every question, every blank he’d fumbled, convinced he’d bombed.
Jo, though, floated through—reckless, freckled, infuriatingly relaxed, energy buzzing higher than ever. Rugby drills ate his days, the ball spinning in his hands between classes, boxers slung low as he sauntered from exam to exam, green eyes bright, unbothered. He’d tried dragging Piet into his orbit—one night, second week, sprawled naked on his bed, cock hard for an “anytime, no judgment” session. “Let off steam, boet,” he’d joked, stroking slow, grinning wicked. Piet, briefs tight, groaned—“Fok, Jo, I can’t”—and buried his head back in notes, though his cock twitched, tempted, watching Jo’s load hit his chest, a casual laugh before he rolled over, snoring fast. Piet stewed, resisting.
After each exam, Piet’s panic roared—“How’d it go, bru?”—met with Jo’s breezy “Ja, fine,” every damn time, no sweat, no doubt. Piet’s suspicion hardened into a blade—Jo wasn’t a genius, no way he was coasting without something. He hadn’t cracked a book since that one forced session, yet here he was, tossing that rugby ball like it’d ace Ag Econ. Money? Jo’s family had land, old ties—bribes to profs? A favor owed from some farm deal? Or Jo himself—cheating, charming lecturers, some trick Piet couldn’t pin? The guilt of doubting his best mate twisted, but the evidence—Jo’s ease, the ball over books—stacked too high. Piet needed answers, but where the fok did he look?
Friday
The last exam hit Friday—Piet staggering out of the hall, brain a fried mess, hands trembling, muttering, “Fok, if I passed that…” Jo bounced beside him, rugby ball spinning, grinning wide. “Done, bru—fokkin finally!” Piet grimaced, stress still clawing, but Jo clapped his shoulder, protective now. “You’re golden, boet—now, braai tonight. End of exams, end of all braais.” He’d planned it mid-week—a blowout to cap the term, the quad booked, meat sourced from every corner, beers stacked high, word spread like wildfire.
By evening, the quad was a live wire—electric, pulsing with release. Smoke curled thick from Jo’s fire, a towering beast of coals he tended like a firstborn—tongs in hand, shirt unbuttoned, freckled chest bare beneath, sweat beading as he flipped chops, boerewors, chicken thighs, the sizzle loud over the thumping Afrikaans rock blasting from a speaker. Thirty-plus showed—rugby boys hollering, rock nerds cracking cans, stragglers weaving in—sprawled on blankets, leaning on crates, the air thick with meat, beer, and freedom. Fairy lights strung haphazardly twinkled overhead, casting a warm glow, empty Black Label cans piling into a wobbly pyramid some genius had started. Laughter ricocheted—Henk arm-wrestling a rugby mate, Sarah dancing with Gillian, the vibe raw, chaotic, alive.
Jo ruled it—Braai Master in full glory, barking, “No one touches this fire, hey!” as a drunk rock nerd stumbled too close, tongs swatting air. Piet hovered near, jeans swapped for shorts, sipping a beer, dry quips—“Don’t burn the quad down, circus”—cutting through Jo’s wild energy, grounding it. Matt and Byron rolled in—Matt’s “Braai Master!” booming, clapping Jo’s back, hairy chest bare under an open shirt, Byron’s lean frame slinking up, smirking, “Missed you, bru.” Jo grinned, flipping a chop, green eyes glinting—tension sparking as Matt’s hand lingered on his shoulder, Byron’s gaze tracing his sweat-slick neck. Sexual heat flickered—Jo leaning into Matt’s touch, a flirty “Keep missing me, boet,” tossed back, Byron’s low chuckle edging it on.
Piet caught Jo too—mid-flip, their eyes locked, brown on green, and Jo winked, tongs raised, “Keeping it hot for you, hey.” Piet smirked, sipping, a jolt hitting his briefs—flirting, familiar, their pull alive in the chaos. But suspicion gnawed harder—Jo tossing that ball all week, “Ja, fine” after every exam, no books, no stress. Something’s up, Piet thought, beer cold in his hand, eyes narrowing.
He slid over to Henk—mutual mate, rugby boy with a sharp mind—leaning on a crate, sipping. “Oi, Henk,” Piet said, casual but probing, “Jo’s too chill, hey—exams, no studying, just… fine. You reckon he’s up to something?” Henk raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Bru, you think he’s rigging it? Jo’s no brainiac—maybe his old man paid off a prof, farm money talks.” Piet frowned, nodding slow. “Ja, maybe—or a favour, some debt from back home.”
Henk laughed, downing his beer. “Or he’s shagging a lecturer—charm’s his thing, hey. Picture it—Jo, boxers low, winking his way to an A.” Piet snorted, but the rabbit hole yawned. “Fok, or he’s got a stash of old tests—stole ‘em from somewhere, cheeky bastard.” Henk’s eyes lit up, absurd now. “Or hypnosis—convinced the markers he’s Einstein, waving that rugby ball like a wand.” They cackled, each theory wilder—Jo blackmailing with farm secrets, Jo a secret genius playing dumb—Piet’s suspicion spiralling, half-serious, half-laughing, no answers sticking.
The braai roared on—meat piled high, Jo plating chops with flair, cheers raining down, “Braai Master!” echoing. Gillian danced with Jaco, Piet’s jaw tightening but letting it slide—slow was dead. Matt brushed Jo’s arm, passing a beer, fingers grazing—Jo’s grin flirty, “Cheers, hairy,” tension thick. Byron leaned in, whispering something, Jo laughing low, green eyes darting to Piet—then back, a tease in his stare, “Keeping it warm, bru,” tossed his way. Piet felt it—cock twitching, Jo’s pull tugging, Matt and Byron’s heat a shadow he didn’t see.
People drifted off—Henk stumbling, Sarah waving—the fire dying to embers, Jo expecting Piet to peel away, maybe chase Gillian, his backup plan with Matt and Byron simmering. But Piet stayed, anger flaring once over Gillian then fading—brown eyes locked on Jo, steady, choosing him. “Fok that, bru—night’s ours,” he said, clapping Jo’s shoulder, voice firm, brushing off the drama for their groove.
The night thinned—Jo torn, eyes flicking—Matt and Byron lingering, Matt’s hand brushing his back, a husky “Later, Braai Master?” Byron’s smirk promising more, sheets waiting; Piet beside him, solid, brown eyes soft, a flirty “Best mate’s privilege, hey,” pulling deep, their bond electric in the dying light. Jo grinned, decision hanging—were to end the party?
Chapter 35
The quad was a battlefield of revelry winding down—smoke curling thin from Jo’s once-roaring fire, now a smouldering heap of ash and glowing coals, the last wisps of charred meat clinging to the air. Empty Black Label cans littered the grass, some crushed into jagged discs, others teetering in a lopsided pyramid that had toppled twice before a rugby boy gave up. Fairy lights flickered weakly, their gold glow dimming as batteries faded, casting long shadows over blankets strewn with crumbs and half-eaten chops. The Afrikaans rock playlist looped its last track—gravelly vocals fading into static—thirty-plus bodies peeling off into the night, voices hoarse from shouting, steps unsteady from beer and relief.
Jo stood by the fire pit, tongs dangling loose in his hand, shirt unbuttoned to his navel—freckled chest sweat-slick, ginger fuzz catching the light, green eyes still sparking with the braai’s high. He’d plated the final skewers—peppers blackened, onions soft—passing them out with a grin, “Last call, boets!” his voice cutting through the thinning crowd. Piet lingered close, jeans swapped for shorts, a Black Label cradled in his calloused hand, dry quips—“Don’t burn your crown, Braai Master”—tossed Jo’s way, grounding his wild buzz. Their shoulders brushed as Jo kicked dirt over the embers, a casual intimacy in the chaos.
Matt and Byron hadn’t left—Matt slouched by a crate, hairy chest bare under an open flannel, nursing a beer, his lanky frame swaying slightly. Byron leaned nearby, lean and shirtless, shorts low, a quiet smirk playing as he watched Jo rake the coals. “Hell of a night, Braai Master,” Matt called, voice thick with buzz and something hotter, stepping closer, hand clapping Jo’s shoulder—lingering, fingers brushing slow. Jo grinned, flipping the tongs, “Fokkin right, hairy—missed me?” his tone flirty, leaning into it, green eyes glinting. Byron slid up, passing a fresh can, his knuckles grazing Jo’s arm, “Too long, bru,” low and teasing, heat simmering in the air between them.
Piet caught it—Jo’s grin flashing his way mid-flirt, a skewer thrust at him, “Best mate gets the good stuff, hey,” their fingers brushing as he took it, a jolt hitting his briefs, tension coiling. Gillian danced across the quad with Jaco—her laugh sharp, his hulking front-row frame looming—but Piet’s eyes stayed on Jo, brushing it off, her drama a flicker he didn’t chase. Jo was here—tongs in hand, freckled chaos pulling him in—a night with his best mate outshining her mess.
“C’mon, bru—room time,” Piet said, slinging an arm over Jo’s shoulders, his stocky frame leaning in, voice firm but warm, a grin tugging his sunburnt face. Jo matched it, arm looping around Piet’s back—brothers on every level, steps syncing as they broke from the quad, laughter spilling out. Jo glanced back—Matt and Byron by the crates, Matt’s wink sharp, Byron’s nod slow, a smirk curling—Jo’s green eyes flashed a telling nod, a silent pact sealed, unnoticed by Piet, who chuckled ahead, “Fokkin circus, you,” blind to the undercurrent weaving through the night.
Their walk was a stumble through the res—past Henk weaving with a rugby mate, Sarah’s wave ignored, the hall’s fluorescent buzz dimming as they neared their door. Jo’s arm stayed heavy over Piet’s shoulders, Piet’s hand gripping Jo’s waist, their strides loose, the braai’s buzz humming in their veins—a groove carved deep, unbreakable.
They burst through the door, arms still draped, the slam echoing as it shut—Piet’s move was instant, raw, shoving Jo hard against the wood, the frame rattling as Jo’s back hit with a heavy thud, breath punching out. Piet leaned in close, arms braced on either side of Jo’s head—muscles flexing under his shirt, hands flat against the door, boxing Jo in—a cage of heat and intent. His sunburnt face loomed, sweat beading from the braai, brown eyes locking on Jo’s green—intense, unblinking, something wild flickering in them. Jo’s freckled cheeks flushed, caught off guard, heart slamming, breath ragged as Piet’s stare pinned him, the room shrinking to just them.
“I—I—I—I—I love you,” Piet stammered, words spilling clumsy, raw, unplanned—a gut punch hitting Jo square, his face burning hotter, green eyes widening, chest tightening under the weight. Piet’s panic flared—hands trembling against the door, voice rushing to fix it—“Like a brotherly, best friend way, you know—fok, Jo, you get me, right?” His brown eyes searched, pleading, the confession hanging heavy, a truth he hadn’t meant to bare so starkly.
Jo’s gaze didn’t shift—locked on Piet’s, green boring into brown, the urge to echo it surging—raw, real, teetering on his tongue—but he swallowed it hard, humor his shield. “You just love smelling me undies, boet,” he quipped, grin breaking wide, sharp and deflecting, pushing Piet back—shoving him onto his bed with a thud, collapsing on top, chest to chest, freckled hands gripping Piet’s shoulders, moving in for a kiss, lips hovering close.
Piet stopped him—hand flat on Jo’s chest, firm, brown eyes narrowing, suspicion cutting through the haze. “I saw Matt and Byron all over you—what’s up with that, bru?” His voice sliced, braai flashes replaying—Matt’s lingering hands, Byron’s whispers near the fire—doubt spiking, suspicion flaring hot, though Matt and Byron’s full secret stayed buried, a thread Piet couldn’t pull.
Jo froze—a split-second panic, gut twisting, Matt and Byron’s mouths flashing—but he masked it fast, grin sliding back smooth. “You know this charm of mine, bru—they find it irresistible,” he said, brushing it off, leaning closer, voice teasing. “Told you there’s something up between them anyway—nothing to it, hey.” His green eyes danced, deflecting, dodging, hands sliding to Piet’s hips, moving back for the kiss, breath hot against Piet’s lips.
Piet held a beat—suspicion simmering, Jo’s charm a dodge he half-bought, half-doubted—then caved, resistance shattering. Their lips crashed—passionate, hungry, a collision of tongues tangling, Jo’s weight pinning Piet to the mattress, the creak of springs loud in the quiet room. Cocks rubbed together through their clothes—Jo’s shorts tight, Piet’s jeans straining—hardening fast, grinding as they made out, breaths hot and jagged, a tangle of need and heat. Piet’s hands roamed Jo’s back—rough, gripping tight under his open shirt, tracing the freckled spine—Jo’s fingers digging into Piet’s sides, sliding under his tee, brushing hairy skin—brotherly love, sexual fire, and unspoken secrets melding in the press of their bodies.
Jo’s tongue swept Piet’s mouth—deep, claiming—Piet groaning low, hands clutching Jo’s ass through his shorts, pulling him closer, cocks throbbing, fabric damp with precum. Jo’s lips trailed—nipping Piet’s jaw, sucking his neck, a sharp “Fok” escaping Piet as his head tipped back, chest heaving. Their hips rocked—slow, then frantic—Jo’s weight a steady press, Piet’s hands roaming higher, tangling in Jo’s blonde mop, tugging as their mouths met again, sloppy, fierce, the braai’s tension erupting into something primal, unstoppable.
The quad was a battlefield of revelry winding down—smoke curling thin from Jo’s once-roaring fire, now a smouldering heap of ash and glowing coals, the last wisps of charred meat clinging to the air. Empty Black Label cans littered the grass, some crushed into jagged discs, others teetering in a lopsided pyramid that had toppled twice before a rugby boy gave up. Fairy lights flickered weakly, their gold glow dimming as batteries faded, casting long shadows over blankets strewn with crumbs and half-eaten chops. The Afrikaans rock playlist looped its last track—gravelly vocals fading into static—thirty-plus bodies peeling off into the night, voices hoarse from shouting, steps unsteady from beer and relief.
Jo stood by the fire pit, tongs dangling loose in his hand, shirt unbuttoned to his navel—freckled chest sweat-slick, ginger fuzz catching the light, green eyes still sparking with the braai’s high. He’d plated the final skewers—peppers blackened, onions soft—passing them out with a grin, “Last call, boets!” his voice cutting through the thinning crowd. Piet lingered close, jeans swapped for shorts, a Black Label cradled in his calloused hand, dry quips—“Don’t burn your crown, Braai Master”—tossed Jo’s way, grounding his wild buzz. Their shoulders brushed as Jo kicked dirt over the embers, a casual intimacy in the chaos.
Matt and Byron hadn’t left—Matt slouched by a crate, hairy chest bare under an open flannel, nursing a beer, his lanky frame swaying slightly. Byron leaned nearby, lean and shirtless, shorts low, a quiet smirk playing as he watched Jo rake the coals. “Hell of a night, Braai Master,” Matt called, voice thick with buzz and something hotter, stepping closer, hand clapping Jo’s shoulder—lingering, fingers brushing slow. Jo grinned, flipping the tongs, “Fokkin right, hairy—missed me?” his tone flirty, leaning into it, green eyes glinting. Byron slid up, passing a fresh can, his knuckles grazing Jo’s arm, “Too long, bru,” low and teasing, heat simmering in the air between them.
Piet caught it—Jo’s grin flashing his way mid-flirt, a skewer thrust at him, “Best mate gets the good stuff, hey,” their fingers brushing as he took it, a jolt hitting his briefs, tension coiling. Gillian danced across the quad with Jaco—her laugh sharp, his hulking front-row frame looming—but Piet’s eyes stayed on Jo, brushing it off, her drama a flicker he didn’t chase. Jo was here—tongs in hand, freckled chaos pulling him in—a night with his best mate outshining her mess.
“C’mon, bru—room time,” Piet said, slinging an arm over Jo’s shoulders, his stocky frame leaning in, voice firm but warm, a grin tugging his sunburnt face. Jo matched it, arm looping around Piet’s back—brothers on every level, steps syncing as they broke from the quad, laughter spilling out. Jo glanced back—Matt and Byron by the crates, Matt’s wink sharp, Byron’s nod slow, a smirk curling—Jo’s green eyes flashed a telling nod, a silent pact sealed, unnoticed by Piet, who chuckled ahead, “Fokkin circus, you,” blind to the undercurrent weaving through the night.
Their walk was a stumble through the res—past Henk weaving with a rugby mate, Sarah’s wave ignored, the hall’s fluorescent buzz dimming as they neared their door. Jo’s arm stayed heavy over Piet’s shoulders, Piet’s hand gripping Jo’s waist, their strides loose, the braai’s buzz humming in their veins—a groove carved deep, unbreakable.
They burst through the door, arms still draped, the slam echoing as it shut—Piet’s move was instant, raw, shoving Jo hard against the wood, the frame rattling as Jo’s back hit with a heavy thud, breath punching out. Piet leaned in close, arms braced on either side of Jo’s head—muscles flexing under his shirt, hands flat against the door, boxing Jo in—a cage of heat and intent. His sunburnt face loomed, sweat beading from the braai, brown eyes locking on Jo’s green—intense, unblinking, something wild flickering in them. Jo’s freckled cheeks flushed, caught off guard, heart slamming, breath ragged as Piet’s stare pinned him, the room shrinking to just them.
“I—I—I—I—I love you,” Piet stammered, words spilling clumsy, raw, unplanned—a gut punch hitting Jo square, his face burning hotter, green eyes widening, chest tightening under the weight. Piet’s panic flared—hands trembling against the door, voice rushing to fix it—“Like a brotherly, best friend way, you know—fok, Jo, you get me, right?” His brown eyes searched, pleading, the confession hanging heavy, a truth he hadn’t meant to bare so starkly.
Jo’s gaze didn’t shift—locked on Piet’s, green boring into brown, the urge to echo it surging—raw, real, teetering on his tongue—but he swallowed it hard, humor his shield. “You just love smelling me undies, boet,” he quipped, grin breaking wide, sharp and deflecting, pushing Piet back—shoving him onto his bed with a thud, collapsing on top, chest to chest, freckled hands gripping Piet’s shoulders, moving in for a kiss, lips hovering close.
Piet stopped him—hand flat on Jo’s chest, firm, brown eyes narrowing, suspicion cutting through the haze. “I saw Matt and Byron all over you—what’s up with that, bru?” His voice sliced, braai flashes replaying—Matt’s lingering hands, Byron’s whispers near the fire—doubt spiking, suspicion flaring hot, though Matt and Byron’s full secret stayed buried, a thread Piet couldn’t pull.
Jo froze—a split-second panic, gut twisting, Matt and Byron’s mouths flashing—but he masked it fast, grin sliding back smooth. “You know this charm of mine, bru—they find it irresistible,” he said, brushing it off, leaning closer, voice teasing. “Told you there’s something up between them anyway—nothing to it, hey.” His green eyes danced, deflecting, dodging, hands sliding to Piet’s hips, moving back for the kiss, breath hot against Piet’s lips.
Piet held a beat—suspicion simmering, Jo’s charm a dodge he half-bought, half-doubted—then caved, resistance shattering. Their lips crashed—passionate, hungry, a collision of tongues tangling, Jo’s weight pinning Piet to the mattress, the creak of springs loud in the quiet room. Cocks rubbed together through their clothes—Jo’s shorts tight, Piet’s jeans straining—hardening fast, grinding as they made out, breaths hot and jagged, a tangle of need and heat. Piet’s hands roamed Jo’s back—rough, gripping tight under his open shirt, tracing the freckled spine—Jo’s fingers digging into Piet’s sides, sliding under his tee, brushing hairy skin—brotherly love, sexual fire, and unspoken secrets melding in the press of their bodies.
Jo’s tongue swept Piet’s mouth—deep, claiming—Piet groaning low, hands clutching Jo’s ass through his shorts, pulling him closer, cocks throbbing, fabric damp with precum. Jo’s lips trailed—nipping Piet’s jaw, sucking his neck, a sharp “Fok” escaping Piet as his head tipped back, chest heaving. Their hips rocked—slow, then frantic—Jo’s weight a steady press, Piet’s hands roaming higher, tangling in Jo’s blonde mop, tugging as their mouths met again, sloppy, fierce, the braai’s tension erupting into something primal, unstoppable.
Really liking this! I also love the character profiles at the start - It really helps to ground the story from the beginning! Hope their relationship continues to develop further!!
OK--just when I think I have your train of thought you surprise me--I so hope Jo does not fuck this up---You are an excellent writer and the story is hot as fuck...
Chapter 36
Their lips clashed, a storm of heat and hunger—Jo’s tongue sweeping Piet’s mouth, claiming every inch, Piet’s groans vibrating as their cocks ground together through straining fabric—Jo’s shorts, Piet’s jeans—hard and damp with precum. Jo’s weight pinned Piet to the bed, springs creaking under them, the room shrinking to the press of their bodies—freckled chest to hairy chest, breaths hot and jagged. Piet’s hands roamed Jo’s back, rough under his open shirt, gripping his freckled spine, while Jo’s fingers dug into Piet’s sides, sliding under his tee, brushing coarse hair—a tangle of brotherly love, raw lust, and secrets pulsing beneath.
Jo broke the kiss, lips trailing—hot, wet—down Piet’s neck, nipping the pulse point, sucking hard enough to bruise, a repeat of that wild night a week past. Piet’s head tipped back, a low “Fok” rumbling out, hands clutching Jo’s shoulders as Jo moved lower—kissing across his collarbone, then shoulders, teeth grazing sunburnt skin, tasting salt and braai smoke. Clothes became a barrier—Jo yanked Piet’s shirt up, tearing it over his head, tossing it across the room to land in a heap by the desk. Piet’s hands fumbled, ripping Jo’s shirt off—buttons popping, fabric flung to hit the wall—then clawing at Jo’s shorts, shoving them down with boxers in one rough pull, Jo’s hard cock springing free, ginger pubes glinting. Jo returned the favor—jeans and briefs torn off Piet’s legs, flung to crash against the chair—naked now, skin to skin, cocks brushing, leaking.
Jo’s lips moved again—down Piet’s firm, hairy chest, kissing slow, deliberate—tongue flicking a nipple, circling the dark hair, Piet’s groan deepening, hands tangling in Jo’s blonde mop. Lower—across his abs, taut under coarse hair, Jo’s breath hot, teasing—then his navel, tongue dipping in, a soft “Fok, Jo” escaping Piet as his hips twitched. Jo grinned against his skin, kissing down to thick pubes—musky, dark—nuzzling there, savoring the scent, until he reached that fat, uncut cock he’d grown to crave. It pulsed in his hand—thick, ruddy, foreskin slick with precum—Jo’s lips parting, taking the head slow, tongue swirling, a sloppy, deliberate start.
The blowjob stretched long—Jo sucking deep, wet, lips sliding down Piet’s shaft, throat flexing as he took it all, pubes brushing his nose. Piet’s head threw back, fists clenching the sheets—white-knuckled, tearing at the fabric—groans spilling loud, “Fok—Jo—ja—” as Jo’s hands massaged his heavy balls, rolling them firm, tugging gently. Piet spread his legs wide—thighs parting, hairy and thick—giving Jo better access, an invitation to explore further, hips lifting slightly, need raw in his ragged breaths.
Jo took it—lips pulling off with a wet pop, a string of spit snapping, eyes flicking up—green meeting brown, Piet lost in ecstasy, lust glazing his stare. Jo’s tongue trailed lower—licking Piet’s balls, sucking one into his mouth, then the other, Piet’s “Fok, yes” a growl, encouraging. He moved further—hands spreading Piet’s cheeks, exposing his tight, hairy hole—Jo’s tongue flicking out, probing slow, a tentative lick across the rim. Piet jolted, a sharp “Fok!” tearing free, hips bucking, hands gripping Jo’s head tighter. “More, bru—go,” he rasped, voice wrecked, lost in it, urging Jo on.
Jo dove in—tongue lapping long and deep, circling, then pushing inside—hot, wet, relentless—Piet’s moans filling the room, thighs trembling, spreading wider still. Jo’s fingers joined—one slipping in, slow, slick with spit, curling against Piet’s spot—Piet’s back arching, a guttural “Ja—fok—” as Jo added a second, pumping steady, stretching him open, tongue still teasing the edge. Piet was gone—ecstasy and lust shredding him, “Deeper, Jo—fok, do it,” panting, encouraging, hips rocking into every thrust.
Jo pulled back—fingers sliding free, spit-slick—climbing up, cock hard and leaking, aligning with Piet’s hole. He pushed in—slow, tender at first, inch by inch, Piet’s tight heat gripping him—Piet’s groan low, hands clutching Jo’s ass, pulling him closer. “Fok, bru—ja,” he breathed, brown eyes locked on green, a mix of care and need as Jo bottomed out, hips flush, trembling with restraint. They moved—slow, steady, Jo’s thrusts gentle, savoring—Piet’s legs wrapping his waist, hands roaming Jo’s freckled back, a tender rhythm building, breaths syncing.
“Harder,” Piet rasped, voice rough, needy—hips bucking up, urging—Jo grinned, green eyes flashing, and gave in. The pace shifted—wild, hard, passionate—Jo slamming in deep, bedframe rattling, skin slapping loud, Piet’s groans turning to shouts, “Fok—Jo—yes!” Jo’s hands gripped Piet’s thighs, spreading him wider—thrusting relentless, cock pounding, sweat dripping—Piet’s fists tearing the sheets, back arching, lost in it. Their eyes stayed locked—brown and green, raw, fierce—lust and love blurring, the braai’s tension exploding into frantic, primal sex, Jo driving them both to the edge, the night ending in a storm of their messy, unshakable bond.
Their lips clashed, a storm of heat and hunger—Jo’s tongue sweeping Piet’s mouth, claiming every inch, Piet’s groans vibrating as their cocks ground together through straining fabric—Jo’s shorts, Piet’s jeans—hard and damp with precum. Jo’s weight pinned Piet to the bed, springs creaking under them, the room shrinking to the press of their bodies—freckled chest to hairy chest, breaths hot and jagged. Piet’s hands roamed Jo’s back, rough under his open shirt, gripping his freckled spine, while Jo’s fingers dug into Piet’s sides, sliding under his tee, brushing coarse hair—a tangle of brotherly love, raw lust, and secrets pulsing beneath.
Jo broke the kiss, lips trailing—hot, wet—down Piet’s neck, nipping the pulse point, sucking hard enough to bruise, a repeat of that wild night a week past. Piet’s head tipped back, a low “Fok” rumbling out, hands clutching Jo’s shoulders as Jo moved lower—kissing across his collarbone, then shoulders, teeth grazing sunburnt skin, tasting salt and braai smoke. Clothes became a barrier—Jo yanked Piet’s shirt up, tearing it over his head, tossing it across the room to land in a heap by the desk. Piet’s hands fumbled, ripping Jo’s shirt off—buttons popping, fabric flung to hit the wall—then clawing at Jo’s shorts, shoving them down with boxers in one rough pull, Jo’s hard cock springing free, ginger pubes glinting. Jo returned the favor—jeans and briefs torn off Piet’s legs, flung to crash against the chair—naked now, skin to skin, cocks brushing, leaking.
Jo’s lips moved again—down Piet’s firm, hairy chest, kissing slow, deliberate—tongue flicking a nipple, circling the dark hair, Piet’s groan deepening, hands tangling in Jo’s blonde mop. Lower—across his abs, taut under coarse hair, Jo’s breath hot, teasing—then his navel, tongue dipping in, a soft “Fok, Jo” escaping Piet as his hips twitched. Jo grinned against his skin, kissing down to thick pubes—musky, dark—nuzzling there, savoring the scent, until he reached that fat, uncut cock he’d grown to crave. It pulsed in his hand—thick, ruddy, foreskin slick with precum—Jo’s lips parting, taking the head slow, tongue swirling, a sloppy, deliberate start.
The blowjob stretched long—Jo sucking deep, wet, lips sliding down Piet’s shaft, throat flexing as he took it all, pubes brushing his nose. Piet’s head threw back, fists clenching the sheets—white-knuckled, tearing at the fabric—groans spilling loud, “Fok—Jo—ja—” as Jo’s hands massaged his heavy balls, rolling them firm, tugging gently. Piet spread his legs wide—thighs parting, hairy and thick—giving Jo better access, an invitation to explore further, hips lifting slightly, need raw in his ragged breaths.
Jo took it—lips pulling off with a wet pop, a string of spit snapping, eyes flicking up—green meeting brown, Piet lost in ecstasy, lust glazing his stare. Jo’s tongue trailed lower—licking Piet’s balls, sucking one into his mouth, then the other, Piet’s “Fok, yes” a growl, encouraging. He moved further—hands spreading Piet’s cheeks, exposing his tight, hairy hole—Jo’s tongue flicking out, probing slow, a tentative lick across the rim. Piet jolted, a sharp “Fok!” tearing free, hips bucking, hands gripping Jo’s head tighter. “More, bru—go,” he rasped, voice wrecked, lost in it, urging Jo on.
Jo dove in—tongue lapping long and deep, circling, then pushing inside—hot, wet, relentless—Piet’s moans filling the room, thighs trembling, spreading wider still. Jo’s fingers joined—one slipping in, slow, slick with spit, curling against Piet’s spot—Piet’s back arching, a guttural “Ja—fok—” as Jo added a second, pumping steady, stretching him open, tongue still teasing the edge. Piet was gone—ecstasy and lust shredding him, “Deeper, Jo—fok, do it,” panting, encouraging, hips rocking into every thrust.
Jo pulled back—fingers sliding free, spit-slick—climbing up, cock hard and leaking, aligning with Piet’s hole. He pushed in—slow, tender at first, inch by inch, Piet’s tight heat gripping him—Piet’s groan low, hands clutching Jo’s ass, pulling him closer. “Fok, bru—ja,” he breathed, brown eyes locked on green, a mix of care and need as Jo bottomed out, hips flush, trembling with restraint. They moved—slow, steady, Jo’s thrusts gentle, savoring—Piet’s legs wrapping his waist, hands roaming Jo’s freckled back, a tender rhythm building, breaths syncing.
“Harder,” Piet rasped, voice rough, needy—hips bucking up, urging—Jo grinned, green eyes flashing, and gave in. The pace shifted—wild, hard, passionate—Jo slamming in deep, bedframe rattling, skin slapping loud, Piet’s groans turning to shouts, “Fok—Jo—yes!” Jo’s hands gripped Piet’s thighs, spreading him wider—thrusting relentless, cock pounding, sweat dripping—Piet’s fists tearing the sheets, back arching, lost in it. Their eyes stayed locked—brown and green, raw, fierce—lust and love blurring, the braai’s tension exploding into frantic, primal sex, Jo driving them both to the edge, the night ending in a storm of their messy, unshakable bond.
Damn bro that was hot as fuck---damn you made my day...THANKS--now I have to clean up
PouletAuPoivre
Loved Member
I hope Jo doesn't fuck this up, too.
They're both cowards, but I think (for now, anyway) that Jo is worse.
And I keep wondering if Piet will eve realize that he'd rather be studying Geology.
They're both cowards, but I think (for now, anyway) that Jo is worse.
And I keep wondering if Piet will eve realize that he'd rather be studying Geology.
PouletAuPoivre
Loved Member
Jayson, I'm very impressed with how much good-quality material you've been posting so quickly.
Have you been working on this story for a while, or is it just pouring out of you these past few days in torrents of inspiration?
Have you been working on this story for a while, or is it just pouring out of you these past few days in torrents of inspiration?
I with you--here's to hoping!!! Need something HAPPY for once
Thank you! Been working on 2 stories for a while. Just started posting a fantasy story about formula 1 as well.
Aussie320
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It’s almost like we need you to create some A.I. images of these characters just to fill our heads with these the great fantasies you’re creating…. 
Great idea!It’s almost like we need you to create some A.I. images of these characters just to fill our heads with these the great fantasies you’re creating….
