PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
That's one of the great purposes that good fiction serves in life.
Consider yourself hugged.
Two farm boys collide at university
- Thread starter jayson_steyn
- Start date
That's one of the great purposes that good fiction serves in life.
Consider yourself hugged.
Fantastic story. Loved it. Enjoyed every entry!
Omg it's over where do I begin I'm sad but also happy not to be so obsessed by this story lol wow just wow
Jayson your writing, this story has really impacted me. Sunday 2 weeks ago I read this story for 9 hours straight misded a dinner n catch up i couldnt stop. so hooked so obsessed of every twist and turn happy, sad, turn on, scared it was nuts.
my mind feeling like I was there, like mates of Jo n Piet like I was piet at times. I never EVER read books novels stories let alone become so obsessed with a story.
Agree with others your writing style is amazing bulid an awesome picture make it so real life like, like I was there part of them crazy.
Thank you so much wow I don't know what to say I am actually sad now crazy.
The first 8 9 pages amazing amazing story telling never being so captivated so excited so into a story ever shows how good u are
Nice way to end it as well
Thank you I know woulda taken u so so many hours to think and write this all up.
Thank you
Jayson your writing, this story has really impacted me. Sunday 2 weeks ago I read this story for 9 hours straight misded a dinner n catch up i couldnt stop. so hooked so obsessed of every twist and turn happy, sad, turn on, scared it was nuts.
my mind feeling like I was there, like mates of Jo n Piet like I was piet at times. I never EVER read books novels stories let alone become so obsessed with a story.
Agree with others your writing style is amazing bulid an awesome picture make it so real life like, like I was there part of them crazy.
Thank you so much wow I don't know what to say I am actually sad now crazy.
The first 8 9 pages amazing amazing story telling never being so captivated so excited so into a story ever shows how good u are
Nice way to end it as well
Thank you I know woulda taken u so so many hours to think and write this all up.
Thank you
Let’s carry on the story.
Spencer Clarke: A Backstory
The story of Spencer Clarke begins in the bustling heart of Johannesburg, a city of concrete and chaos, where the skyline hums with ambition and the streets pulse with a rhythm far removed from the rolling fields of the Western Cape. Born 19 years ago in a sleek Sandton apartment, Spencer was the only child of Lauren Clarke, a high-flying corporate lawyer, and Malcolm Clarke, a charismatic property developer whose name adorned luxury estates across Gauteng. Their world was one of polished marble floors, imported wines, and weekend getaways to Cape Town or the Kruger National Park, or business class flights to luxurious European destinations, a stark contrast to the gritty farm life that would later pull at Spencer’s curiosity.
Appearance:
Spencer stands tall at 6’1”, his lean frame honed from years of swimming laps in the family’s rooftop pool and, more recently, dominating the water polo pitch. His neatly cropped blonde hair, catches the light with a polished sheen, a product of expensive haircuts at Sandton salons. His piercing blue eyes, inherited from his mother, hold a sharp intelligence and a hint of mischief, framed by lashes that draw attention without effort. His skin is fair, with a faint tan from poolside afternoons, and he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who’s never known want. His wardrobe leans urban—slim-fit chinos, crisp button-downs, and a signature leather jacket he wears like armour—though he’s swapped it for a Stellenbosch water polo kit since arriving at university.
Background:
Growing up, Spencer’s life was a whirlwind of privilege and pressure. His parents’ success came with expectations: top marks at St. Stithians College, piano lessons at eight, debate club by twelve, and a water polo scholarship that sealed his future. Malcolm’s booming voice filled their home with tales of real estate conquests, while Lauren’s sharp wit drilled into Spencer the art of negotiation and the value of a well-crafted argument. But beneath the glitz, cracks formed. Malcolm’s long hours and occasional affairs strained their marriage, leaving Lauren cold and distant, her affection replaced by a focus on Spencer’s achievements. By 16, Spencer had learned to mask his loneliness with charm, a skill that made him popular but kept him guarded.
The turning point came at 17, when Malcolm’s latest development project collapsed under corruption allegations, costing the family millions and forcing a public scandal. Lauren held the fort, her legal acumen salvaging what she could, but the fallout left Spencer questioning the stability of his world. He excelled at water polo to cope, his lean body cutting through water with a ferocity that earned him a full ride to Stellenbosch University. The move to the Western Cape in early 2024 was a chance to escape Johannesburg’s shadow, to redefine himself beyond his parents’ legacy. Studying Business Management with a minor in Sports Science, Spencer saw Stellenbosch as a fresh start—new friends, new challenges, and a chance to explore the rural life he’d only glimpsed on family holidays.
Personality
Spencer is a blend of city polish and hidden depth. He’s quick-witted, with a dry humor that disarms strangers, and his confidence borders on cocky—born from years of winning debates and poolside accolades. He’s straight, with a string of casual flings with Johannesburg socialites, but his curiosity about people, especially those unlike him, is a quiet undercurrent. At Stellenbosch, he’s drawn to the farm boys like Johan, their raw energy and unpolished lives a stark contrast to his own. He’s loyal to a fault once trust is earned, but his guarded nature means he rarely lets anyone past the surface. Beneath the charm lies a restless soul, seeking purpose beyond his parents’ ambitions, a hunger to prove himself on his terms.
Quirks:
Spencer has a habit of tapping his fingers in a rhythmic pattern—leftover from piano lessons—when deep in thought or nervous. He collects vintage vinyl records, a passion sparked by his father’s old jazz collection, and his dorm room is lined with crates of them, from Miriam Makeba to Johnny Clegg. He’s also oddly precise about his coffee, insisting on a pour-over method with beans sourced from a Kenyan roaster, a ritual that steadies him amid uni chaos.
Early Days at Stellenbosch:
Spencer arrived at Stellenbosch in late January, his leather jacket slung over a suitcase packed with designer labels and a water polo bag slung over his shoulder. His first week was a blur of orientation, where his Johannesburg accent and sharp banter earned him nods from the rugby lads and a wary smile from Henk, a hulking first-year who’d later become a friend. Water polo practice started strong, his lean frame slicing through the pool, earning him a starting spot and the nickname “City Shark” from his teammates. But it was at a noisy bar near campus, a dartboard-lit dive called The Grapevine, that Spencer’s path began to twist.
There, amid the clink of beers and the thrum of Afrikaans rock, he spotted Johan “Jo” van der Merwe—tall, lanky, with that wild blonde hair and a rugby jersey stretched over his freckled frame. Jo’s loud laugh cut through the room, his easy charm pulling Spencer in like a magnet. Something about Jo’s farm-boy roughness, so alien to Spencer’s urban upbringing, sparked a thrill—a challenge, a curiosity he couldn’t shake. His cock twitched, an unexpected reaction, and he chalked it up to the beer, the night, the newness of it all. But as Jo tossed darts with a grin, Spencer felt a pull, a desire to know this world beyond his own.
This is where Spencer’s journey begins—a city boy stepping into the wild, uncharted territory of the Western Cape, with Jo as his unexpected guide, and a story of self-discovery waiting to unfold.
Spencer Clarke: A Backstory
The story of Spencer Clarke begins in the bustling heart of Johannesburg, a city of concrete and chaos, where the skyline hums with ambition and the streets pulse with a rhythm far removed from the rolling fields of the Western Cape. Born 19 years ago in a sleek Sandton apartment, Spencer was the only child of Lauren Clarke, a high-flying corporate lawyer, and Malcolm Clarke, a charismatic property developer whose name adorned luxury estates across Gauteng. Their world was one of polished marble floors, imported wines, and weekend getaways to Cape Town or the Kruger National Park, or business class flights to luxurious European destinations, a stark contrast to the gritty farm life that would later pull at Spencer’s curiosity.
Appearance:
Spencer stands tall at 6’1”, his lean frame honed from years of swimming laps in the family’s rooftop pool and, more recently, dominating the water polo pitch. His neatly cropped blonde hair, catches the light with a polished sheen, a product of expensive haircuts at Sandton salons. His piercing blue eyes, inherited from his mother, hold a sharp intelligence and a hint of mischief, framed by lashes that draw attention without effort. His skin is fair, with a faint tan from poolside afternoons, and he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who’s never known want. His wardrobe leans urban—slim-fit chinos, crisp button-downs, and a signature leather jacket he wears like armour—though he’s swapped it for a Stellenbosch water polo kit since arriving at university.
Background:
Growing up, Spencer’s life was a whirlwind of privilege and pressure. His parents’ success came with expectations: top marks at St. Stithians College, piano lessons at eight, debate club by twelve, and a water polo scholarship that sealed his future. Malcolm’s booming voice filled their home with tales of real estate conquests, while Lauren’s sharp wit drilled into Spencer the art of negotiation and the value of a well-crafted argument. But beneath the glitz, cracks formed. Malcolm’s long hours and occasional affairs strained their marriage, leaving Lauren cold and distant, her affection replaced by a focus on Spencer’s achievements. By 16, Spencer had learned to mask his loneliness with charm, a skill that made him popular but kept him guarded.
The turning point came at 17, when Malcolm’s latest development project collapsed under corruption allegations, costing the family millions and forcing a public scandal. Lauren held the fort, her legal acumen salvaging what she could, but the fallout left Spencer questioning the stability of his world. He excelled at water polo to cope, his lean body cutting through water with a ferocity that earned him a full ride to Stellenbosch University. The move to the Western Cape in early 2024 was a chance to escape Johannesburg’s shadow, to redefine himself beyond his parents’ legacy. Studying Business Management with a minor in Sports Science, Spencer saw Stellenbosch as a fresh start—new friends, new challenges, and a chance to explore the rural life he’d only glimpsed on family holidays.
Personality
Spencer is a blend of city polish and hidden depth. He’s quick-witted, with a dry humor that disarms strangers, and his confidence borders on cocky—born from years of winning debates and poolside accolades. He’s straight, with a string of casual flings with Johannesburg socialites, but his curiosity about people, especially those unlike him, is a quiet undercurrent. At Stellenbosch, he’s drawn to the farm boys like Johan, their raw energy and unpolished lives a stark contrast to his own. He’s loyal to a fault once trust is earned, but his guarded nature means he rarely lets anyone past the surface. Beneath the charm lies a restless soul, seeking purpose beyond his parents’ ambitions, a hunger to prove himself on his terms.
Quirks:
Spencer has a habit of tapping his fingers in a rhythmic pattern—leftover from piano lessons—when deep in thought or nervous. He collects vintage vinyl records, a passion sparked by his father’s old jazz collection, and his dorm room is lined with crates of them, from Miriam Makeba to Johnny Clegg. He’s also oddly precise about his coffee, insisting on a pour-over method with beans sourced from a Kenyan roaster, a ritual that steadies him amid uni chaos.
Early Days at Stellenbosch:
Spencer arrived at Stellenbosch in late January, his leather jacket slung over a suitcase packed with designer labels and a water polo bag slung over his shoulder. His first week was a blur of orientation, where his Johannesburg accent and sharp banter earned him nods from the rugby lads and a wary smile from Henk, a hulking first-year who’d later become a friend. Water polo practice started strong, his lean frame slicing through the pool, earning him a starting spot and the nickname “City Shark” from his teammates. But it was at a noisy bar near campus, a dartboard-lit dive called The Grapevine, that Spencer’s path began to twist.
There, amid the clink of beers and the thrum of Afrikaans rock, he spotted Johan “Jo” van der Merwe—tall, lanky, with that wild blonde hair and a rugby jersey stretched over his freckled frame. Jo’s loud laugh cut through the room, his easy charm pulling Spencer in like a magnet. Something about Jo’s farm-boy roughness, so alien to Spencer’s urban upbringing, sparked a thrill—a challenge, a curiosity he couldn’t shake. His cock twitched, an unexpected reaction, and he chalked it up to the beer, the night, the newness of it all. But as Jo tossed darts with a grin, Spencer felt a pull, a desire to know this world beyond his own.
This is where Spencer’s journey begins—a city boy stepping into the wild, uncharted territory of the Western Cape, with Jo as his unexpected guide, and a story of self-discovery waiting to unfold.
W
Woohoo!!! Yes!!! Happy you decided to continue with the story/spin off. Can’t wait. Thank you
Totally agree. Jayson, you are a master. The story is exciting and completely pulls you in on the journey. Love it...thanks mate!
The third Saturday of the term dawned crisp and golden over Stellenbosch, the kind of day that begged for smoke and laughter in the quad. Spencer Clarke had been up since sunrise, his lean frame hunched over a cast-iron potjie pot he’d borrowed from a res mate, the faint tang of lamb and spices already curling into the morning air. He’d decided to ditch the braai idea, Jo’s territory, too sacred to mimic, and instead spent hours coaxing a lamb potjie into existence, a nod to the farm-boy roots he’d absorbed from Jo and Piet without ever fully claiming. His blue eyes narrowed in focus as he stirred the bubbling stew, the recipe a patchwork of Google searches and a half-remembered tip from Jo about slow-cooking with rosemary. The quad was his stage now, and he was damn well going to own it.
By late afternoon, the gang had descended—Henk and Sarah leading the charge, the rugby lads hauling crates of beer, Piet’s rock nerds lugging a folding table, and the wine crew—Rachel, JP, and Doug—toting bottles of their latest Chenin Blanc blend made with VDMDW grapes. The air buzzed with high spirits, the start of their final year igniting a reckless energy in them all. Laughter bounced off the oak trees, music thumped from a portable speaker—some Die Antwoord remix—and the scent of Spencer’s potjie drew curious glances. Jo and Piet’s absence hung like a shadow, a quiet ache in the chatter, but Spencer felt it most. No lopsided grin from Jo to rally the crowd, no dry quip from Piet to ground it. Just him, the City Shark, stepping into the void.
“Oi, Clarke, you gone soft on us? Potjie instead of a braai?” Henk bellowed, his hulking frame looming as he cracked a Black Label, but his grin betrayed his approval. Sarah, perched on a camp chair, smirked and elbowed him. “Let him cook, you oaf. Smells better than your burnt chops last week.”
Spencer straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with a grin that matched Jo’s in cockiness, if not in freckles. “Ja, well, I’m not Jo, hey. No braai purist kak here—just good food. Grab a bowl, bru, before the rugby lads eat it all.” He ladled out a steaming portion, the lamb tender and rich with garlic and thyme, and handed it to Henk. The big man took a bite, eyes widening, and let out a low whistle. “Geez, Clarke, this is bloody magic. You’re hired.”
The gang piled in, bowls in hand, the potjie a massive hit. Rachel swirled her wine, grinning at Spencer over the rim. “Jo’d be proud, you know. Piet’d probably say it needs more balance or something daft.” Laughter rippled through the group, a bittersweet nod to their missing mates, but Spencer kept it light, dishing out seconds with a flourish. “Ja, well, they’re not here to complain, so I’m the king now.” The quip landed, and the mood lifted, the crew settling into a rhythm of beer, banter, and shared stories about third-year chaos to come.
As the sun dipped, casting the quad in a warm orange glow, the wine crew sidled up to Spencer near the potjie pot, now scraped clean. Rachel, her dark hair tied back, spoke first, her voice low but eager. “Spencer, we’ve got a problem. That Chenin Blanc’s selling out, co-ops can’t keep it stocked, but we’re stuck. Scaling’s a nightmare. We need a plan, and you’re the business brain. Help us?”
Spencer’s fingers tapped that old piano rhythm against his thigh, his mind already churning. “Ja, I’ve seen your numbers, small batch works, but you’re bottlenecked on supply and distro. Let’s sort it. Wednesday night, wine shed, 7 p.m. Bring your books, every scrap of data. I’ll figure the margins, find you a path.” His blue eyes glinted with the challenge, the same sharpness that had won him debate trophies back in Joburg. JP clapped his shoulder, grinning. “Lekker, Spense. Wednesday it is.” Doug nodded, relief in his quiet “Thanks, man,” and they drifted back to the crowd, leaving Spencer with a flicker of pride,he was pulling them together, just like Jo used to.
Across the quad, the water polo boys lean, loud, and buzzing from beer, clustered around Spencer as he cracked another can. They’d been at practice that morning, his voice barking orders in the pool, and now they looked at him differently. No Dylan, no Jo or Piet to overshadow them, they were the alphas now, and Spencer was their undisputed leader. “City Shark’s got us sorted, hey,” one of them, a wiry third-year named Kyle, said, slugging his arm. “Coach says you’re captain material, and after that potjie, I’m sold.” The others roared agreement, clinking cans, and Spencer let it sink in. He’d whipped them into shape in the water, and now out here too, they were his crew, and he felt the shift, a quiet power settling into his bones.
Later, as the fire pit crackled and the gang sprawled on blankets, Henk and Sarah edged closer to Spencer, their usual wariness softened by the night. They’d been tight with Jo and Piet, and Spencer’s early days, chasing Jo’s wild streak, crashing their flat, had left a rift, a sense he’d muscled in on something sacred. But tonight, over the last dregs of potjie and a shared brandy Jacques had sent down with the Henks last visit, the air cleared. Henk, his massive frame slouched beside Spencer, broke the ice. “So, bru, what’s your side of it? Jo and Piet leaving—always figured you were part of why they bolted.”
Spencer leaned back, blue eyes steady on the fire, and sighed. “Ja, I get it. I was the city boy, tagging along, stirring kak with Jo. But it wasn’t about stealing Jo, they pulled me in, not the other way round. Jo dared me into half the shit we did—swim-offs, quad dashes—and Piet… he made me think bigger, beyond Joburg’s bullshit. When they left, it wasn’t me pushing them out. The farm called, and I stayed. Missed ‘em like hell, still do.”
Sarah tilted her head, her sharp gaze softening. “You never said that bit. Thought you were just… I dunno, riding their wave. But you’re holding this lot together now—potjie and all. Jo’d laugh his arse off seeing you cook.” She nudged him, a small smile breaking through, and Henk chuckled, clapping Spencer’s back. “Fok, man, fair enough. Took you long enough to spill it. You’re our glue now, no more side-eye.”
Spencer grinned, the tension dissolving like smoke in the wind. “Lekker. Took a bloody potjie to win you over, should’ve cooked sooner.” They laughed, the three of them clinking drinks, a new closeness settling in. Henk tossed another log on the fire, Sarah leaning into his side, and Spencer felt the shift—forgiven, trusted, a real part of the gang at last.
The night stretched on, the quad alive with their noise, rugby lads tackling each other into the grass, rock nerds swapping stones by the fire, the wine crew plotting Wednesday’s meetup. Spencer stood at the center, lean and blonde and sharp, pulling the pieces together. Jo and Piet’s absence lingered, a quiet echo, but he’d filled it with something his own—lamb stew, leadership, a spark that lit the gang up. Third year was theirs, and he was just getting started.
By late afternoon, the gang had descended—Henk and Sarah leading the charge, the rugby lads hauling crates of beer, Piet’s rock nerds lugging a folding table, and the wine crew—Rachel, JP, and Doug—toting bottles of their latest Chenin Blanc blend made with VDMDW grapes. The air buzzed with high spirits, the start of their final year igniting a reckless energy in them all. Laughter bounced off the oak trees, music thumped from a portable speaker—some Die Antwoord remix—and the scent of Spencer’s potjie drew curious glances. Jo and Piet’s absence hung like a shadow, a quiet ache in the chatter, but Spencer felt it most. No lopsided grin from Jo to rally the crowd, no dry quip from Piet to ground it. Just him, the City Shark, stepping into the void.
“Oi, Clarke, you gone soft on us? Potjie instead of a braai?” Henk bellowed, his hulking frame looming as he cracked a Black Label, but his grin betrayed his approval. Sarah, perched on a camp chair, smirked and elbowed him. “Let him cook, you oaf. Smells better than your burnt chops last week.”
Spencer straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with a grin that matched Jo’s in cockiness, if not in freckles. “Ja, well, I’m not Jo, hey. No braai purist kak here—just good food. Grab a bowl, bru, before the rugby lads eat it all.” He ladled out a steaming portion, the lamb tender and rich with garlic and thyme, and handed it to Henk. The big man took a bite, eyes widening, and let out a low whistle. “Geez, Clarke, this is bloody magic. You’re hired.”
The gang piled in, bowls in hand, the potjie a massive hit. Rachel swirled her wine, grinning at Spencer over the rim. “Jo’d be proud, you know. Piet’d probably say it needs more balance or something daft.” Laughter rippled through the group, a bittersweet nod to their missing mates, but Spencer kept it light, dishing out seconds with a flourish. “Ja, well, they’re not here to complain, so I’m the king now.” The quip landed, and the mood lifted, the crew settling into a rhythm of beer, banter, and shared stories about third-year chaos to come.
As the sun dipped, casting the quad in a warm orange glow, the wine crew sidled up to Spencer near the potjie pot, now scraped clean. Rachel, her dark hair tied back, spoke first, her voice low but eager. “Spencer, we’ve got a problem. That Chenin Blanc’s selling out, co-ops can’t keep it stocked, but we’re stuck. Scaling’s a nightmare. We need a plan, and you’re the business brain. Help us?”
Spencer’s fingers tapped that old piano rhythm against his thigh, his mind already churning. “Ja, I’ve seen your numbers, small batch works, but you’re bottlenecked on supply and distro. Let’s sort it. Wednesday night, wine shed, 7 p.m. Bring your books, every scrap of data. I’ll figure the margins, find you a path.” His blue eyes glinted with the challenge, the same sharpness that had won him debate trophies back in Joburg. JP clapped his shoulder, grinning. “Lekker, Spense. Wednesday it is.” Doug nodded, relief in his quiet “Thanks, man,” and they drifted back to the crowd, leaving Spencer with a flicker of pride,he was pulling them together, just like Jo used to.
Across the quad, the water polo boys lean, loud, and buzzing from beer, clustered around Spencer as he cracked another can. They’d been at practice that morning, his voice barking orders in the pool, and now they looked at him differently. No Dylan, no Jo or Piet to overshadow them, they were the alphas now, and Spencer was their undisputed leader. “City Shark’s got us sorted, hey,” one of them, a wiry third-year named Kyle, said, slugging his arm. “Coach says you’re captain material, and after that potjie, I’m sold.” The others roared agreement, clinking cans, and Spencer let it sink in. He’d whipped them into shape in the water, and now out here too, they were his crew, and he felt the shift, a quiet power settling into his bones.
Later, as the fire pit crackled and the gang sprawled on blankets, Henk and Sarah edged closer to Spencer, their usual wariness softened by the night. They’d been tight with Jo and Piet, and Spencer’s early days, chasing Jo’s wild streak, crashing their flat, had left a rift, a sense he’d muscled in on something sacred. But tonight, over the last dregs of potjie and a shared brandy Jacques had sent down with the Henks last visit, the air cleared. Henk, his massive frame slouched beside Spencer, broke the ice. “So, bru, what’s your side of it? Jo and Piet leaving—always figured you were part of why they bolted.”
Spencer leaned back, blue eyes steady on the fire, and sighed. “Ja, I get it. I was the city boy, tagging along, stirring kak with Jo. But it wasn’t about stealing Jo, they pulled me in, not the other way round. Jo dared me into half the shit we did—swim-offs, quad dashes—and Piet… he made me think bigger, beyond Joburg’s bullshit. When they left, it wasn’t me pushing them out. The farm called, and I stayed. Missed ‘em like hell, still do.”
Sarah tilted her head, her sharp gaze softening. “You never said that bit. Thought you were just… I dunno, riding their wave. But you’re holding this lot together now—potjie and all. Jo’d laugh his arse off seeing you cook.” She nudged him, a small smile breaking through, and Henk chuckled, clapping Spencer’s back. “Fok, man, fair enough. Took you long enough to spill it. You’re our glue now, no more side-eye.”
Spencer grinned, the tension dissolving like smoke in the wind. “Lekker. Took a bloody potjie to win you over, should’ve cooked sooner.” They laughed, the three of them clinking drinks, a new closeness settling in. Henk tossed another log on the fire, Sarah leaning into his side, and Spencer felt the shift—forgiven, trusted, a real part of the gang at last.
The night stretched on, the quad alive with their noise, rugby lads tackling each other into the grass, rock nerds swapping stones by the fire, the wine crew plotting Wednesday’s meetup. Spencer stood at the center, lean and blonde and sharp, pulling the pieces together. Jo and Piet’s absence lingered, a quiet echo, but he’d filled it with something his own—lamb stew, leadership, a spark that lit the gang up. Third year was theirs, and he was just getting started.
The quad was a ghost town by 1:30 a.m., the last embers of the fire pit glowing faintly under a blanket of ash. The gang had trickled out—Henk and Sarah stumbling back to Jo’s old flat, the rugby lads hollering into the night, the wine crew and rock nerds scattering to their reses with slurred goodbyes. Spencer Clarke lingered longest, kicking dirt over the fire, the empty potjie pot a silent trophy of his triumph. The night had been a win—his lamb potjie a hit, the gang rallied, his place cemented. He hauled his tired frame back to his dorm, the campus hushed under a sliver of moon, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips.
Inside his single room, the air was warm and still, the faint hum of Stellenbosch nightlife seeping through the cracked window. Spencer stripped down, peeling off his shirt and jeans, kicking them into a heap by the vinyl crates. He stood there in just his white Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, the fabric hugging his lean hips, his 6’1” frame silhouetted against the glow of the quad below. He stepped to the window, blue eyes tracing the empty space where the gang had roared hours before. The night replayed in his head—Henk’s laugh, Sarah’s forgiveness, the water polo boys’ loyalty, the wine crew’s trust. He’d pulled it off, filled the void Jo and Piet left, and the thought sent a warm thrill through him, pooling low in his groin.
His cut cock stirred, pressing against the tight cotton, a slow rise he didn’t fight. The buzz of the night, the power of it, had lit something in him, and he let it build. He turned from the window, bare feet padding across the cool floor to his bed, the mattress creaking as he sank onto it. His hand brushed the bedside table, fingers curling around the drawer handle. He slid it open with a soft scrape, revealing his stash—an 8-inch dildo, sleek and black, and a small bottle of lube, both tucked beside a dog-eared copy of Business Day. A smirk flickered across his face; this was his ritual, his release, no shame in it.
He grabbed the lube first, popping the cap with a flick of his thumb, and squeezed a generous dollop into his palm. The cool slickness hit his fingers, and he shoved his boxer-briefs down, letting them catch around his thighs. His cock sprang free—6 inches, straight and thick, the head flushed pink against his fair skin, blonde fuzz at the base catching the dim light. He coated himself, a low groan slipping out as his hand wrapped around the shaft, stroking slow and deliberate, the wet sound filling the quiet room. His other hand reached for the dildo, lubing it up with practiced ease, the anticipation tightening his gut.
Spencer kicked the boxer-briefs off completely, spreading his legs wide on the bed, one foot flat against the mattress, the other dangling off the edge. He leaned back on one elbow, blue eyes half-lidded, and brought the dildo down, teasing his hole with the tip. His breath hitched as he pressed it in, slow at first, the stretch sharp and familiar, a burn that melted into pleasure as he worked it deeper. “Fuucckk,” he muttered, voice rough, hips shifting to take it all, the full 8 inches buried inside him. His free hand pumped his cock faster, slick and relentless, the dual sensation building a fire in his core.
He fucked himself hard, the dildo sliding in and out with a steady rhythm, his moans growing louder, raw and unfiltered. The headboard tapped the wall, a faint thud he didn’t care to quiet—let the res hear, let them know Spencer Clarke was alive. His mind flashed to the quad, the gang’s cheers, the way they’d looked at him, and it pushed him closer, his cock throbbing in his grip. He angled the dildo, hitting that spot deep inside, and his whole body tensed, thighs trembling, a guttural “oh fuck yes” ripping from his throat.
The orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through him with a force that arched his back off the bed. His cock pulsed, hot white cum shooting in thick ropes across his chest, splattering his pecs, one streak catching his collarbone, another pooling in the hollow of his stomach. He kept stroking, kept thrusting the dildo, riding it out, his moans echoing unchecked, a wild, primal release that left him gasping. The last shudder ripped through him, and he collapsed back, chest heaving, the dildo slipping free to rest beside him, slick and spent.
Spencer lay there, cum cooling on his skin, a lazy grin spreading as his breathing slowed. The room smelled of lube and sweat, the window still open to the quad’s silence. He didn’t care if anyone heard—didn’t care about much right then, just the high of the night and the mess he’d made of himself. His blue eyes drifted shut, one hand resting on his sticky chest, the other flung out beside the vinyl crates. Jo and Piet might’ve claimed the farm, but this—Stellenbosch, the gang, this moment—was his. The Potjie King, the City Shark, alone but electric, and finally in-charge.
Inside his single room, the air was warm and still, the faint hum of Stellenbosch nightlife seeping through the cracked window. Spencer stripped down, peeling off his shirt and jeans, kicking them into a heap by the vinyl crates. He stood there in just his white Calvin Klein boxer-briefs, the fabric hugging his lean hips, his 6’1” frame silhouetted against the glow of the quad below. He stepped to the window, blue eyes tracing the empty space where the gang had roared hours before. The night replayed in his head—Henk’s laugh, Sarah’s forgiveness, the water polo boys’ loyalty, the wine crew’s trust. He’d pulled it off, filled the void Jo and Piet left, and the thought sent a warm thrill through him, pooling low in his groin.
His cut cock stirred, pressing against the tight cotton, a slow rise he didn’t fight. The buzz of the night, the power of it, had lit something in him, and he let it build. He turned from the window, bare feet padding across the cool floor to his bed, the mattress creaking as he sank onto it. His hand brushed the bedside table, fingers curling around the drawer handle. He slid it open with a soft scrape, revealing his stash—an 8-inch dildo, sleek and black, and a small bottle of lube, both tucked beside a dog-eared copy of Business Day. A smirk flickered across his face; this was his ritual, his release, no shame in it.
He grabbed the lube first, popping the cap with a flick of his thumb, and squeezed a generous dollop into his palm. The cool slickness hit his fingers, and he shoved his boxer-briefs down, letting them catch around his thighs. His cock sprang free—6 inches, straight and thick, the head flushed pink against his fair skin, blonde fuzz at the base catching the dim light. He coated himself, a low groan slipping out as his hand wrapped around the shaft, stroking slow and deliberate, the wet sound filling the quiet room. His other hand reached for the dildo, lubing it up with practiced ease, the anticipation tightening his gut.
Spencer kicked the boxer-briefs off completely, spreading his legs wide on the bed, one foot flat against the mattress, the other dangling off the edge. He leaned back on one elbow, blue eyes half-lidded, and brought the dildo down, teasing his hole with the tip. His breath hitched as he pressed it in, slow at first, the stretch sharp and familiar, a burn that melted into pleasure as he worked it deeper. “Fuucckk,” he muttered, voice rough, hips shifting to take it all, the full 8 inches buried inside him. His free hand pumped his cock faster, slick and relentless, the dual sensation building a fire in his core.
He fucked himself hard, the dildo sliding in and out with a steady rhythm, his moans growing louder, raw and unfiltered. The headboard tapped the wall, a faint thud he didn’t care to quiet—let the res hear, let them know Spencer Clarke was alive. His mind flashed to the quad, the gang’s cheers, the way they’d looked at him, and it pushed him closer, his cock throbbing in his grip. He angled the dildo, hitting that spot deep inside, and his whole body tensed, thighs trembling, a guttural “oh fuck yes” ripping from his throat.
The orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through him with a force that arched his back off the bed. His cock pulsed, hot white cum shooting in thick ropes across his chest, splattering his pecs, one streak catching his collarbone, another pooling in the hollow of his stomach. He kept stroking, kept thrusting the dildo, riding it out, his moans echoing unchecked, a wild, primal release that left him gasping. The last shudder ripped through him, and he collapsed back, chest heaving, the dildo slipping free to rest beside him, slick and spent.
Spencer lay there, cum cooling on his skin, a lazy grin spreading as his breathing slowed. The room smelled of lube and sweat, the window still open to the quad’s silence. He didn’t care if anyone heard—didn’t care about much right then, just the high of the night and the mess he’d made of himself. His blue eyes drifted shut, one hand resting on his sticky chest, the other flung out beside the vinyl crates. Jo and Piet might’ve claimed the farm, but this—Stellenbosch, the gang, this moment—was his. The Potjie King, the City Shark, alone but electric, and finally in-charge.
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Excellent and love the way you captured the closing and a new beginning.
Sunday morning broke over Stellenbosch with a gentle warmth, the sun filtering through Spencer Clarke’s dorm window and stirring him from a deep, satisfied sleep. The lingering buzz of his potjie triumph still hummed in his veins, a quiet victory that had cemented his place among the gang. He rolled out of bed, his lean 6’1” frame stretching with a groan, the faint stickiness of dried cum on his chest a reminder of last night’s solo release. A quick shower fixed that—hot water sluicing away the evidence, his blonde hair slicked back as he scrubbed with vigor, blue eyes bright with the promise of the day. Wrapped in a towel, he threw on slim-fit chinos, a crisp white button-down, and his signature leather jacket, the urban edge a contrast to the farm-boy chaos he’d embraced the night before.
His economics group assignment loomed, a group project due in two weeks, and he’d arranged to meet his classmates at the university library at 10 a.m. Grabbing his laptop and a notebook, he slung his water polo branded backpack over his shoulder and headed out, the campus quiet save for the occasional jogger or bleary-eyed student nursing a hangover from Saturday’s revelry.
The library’s upper floor was a haven of hushed voices and rustling pages, the long oak tables bathed in natural light from tall windows. Spencer arrived first, claiming a spot near the back where the group could spread out. His four classmates trickled in over the next ten minutes, each a familiar face from his Business Management lectures, though their interactions had been limited to nods and occasional group chats. The fifth, however, was a wildcard—Max, a name he’d seen on the group email but never matched to a person until now.
First to join was Leila Patel, a petite 19-year-old with warm brown skin and a cascade of black hair tied in a loose braid. She slid into the chair across from Spencer, her Economics textbook thumping onto the table. “Morning, Spence,” she said with a tired smile, her voice carrying a soft Durban lilt. Spencer grinned, leaning back. “Ja, good to see you, Leila.”
Next came Thabo Mokoena, a broad-shouldered 20-year-old with a shaved head and a perpetual smirk. He dropped into the seat beside Leila, his laptop bag slung over one arm. “Yo, Clarke, how’s it going?” he said, his Johannesburg accent thick. Spencer chuckled, tapping his fingers in that piano rhythm. “All good, bru. Ready to crush this.”
Then came Jared Strauss, 21, with short-cropped hair dyed a vibrant purple and a nose ring glinting in the light. He settled next to Spencer, his notebook already open. “Hey, Spencer,” he said, his voice calm but edged with a Cape Town twang. “Good to work with you on this.” He nodded, blue eyes twinkling. “Same here, Jared.”
Finally, the door swung open, and Max stepped in, drawing every eye. He was 19, about 5’11”, with a lean, athletic build that suggested soccer or track, his posture upright but relaxed. His blonde hair was a touch longer than Spencer’s, swept back in a casual wave, and his fair skin carried a faint flush, likely from the South African sun he was still adjusting to. His blue eyes, a shade lighter than Spencer’s, held a quiet intensity, framed by wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a studious air. He wore a fitted gray sweater over dark jeans, a minimalist backpack slung over one shoulder, and his German accent cut through the room as he introduced himself. “Guten Morgen, I’m Max Weber. Just moved here from Munich over December. Still figuring out this place—nice to meet you all.”
Spencer’s interest piqued instantly, the accent rolling over him like a wave—precise yet warm, a perfect English overlaying the German cadence. He leaned forward, extending a hand. “Spencer Clarke, good to meet you, Max. Welcome to the chaos. You’re the new guy, hey?” Max shook his hand, a firm grip, and nodded with a shy smile. “Ja, still a bit lost, but I’m excited. Economics is my thing—hope I can keep up.”
The group exchanged quick bios—Leila from Durban, aiming for a finance career; Thabo from Joburg, dreaming of starting his own business; Jared from Cape Town, passionate about sustainable markets. Spencer shared his Johannesburg roots and water polo captaincy, his charm easing the introductions. Max explained his family’s move—his father, a German engineer, relocated to Cape Town for a renewable energy project, dragging Max to Stellenbosch for university. “Left my soccer team behind,” Max added, adjusting his glasses. “But water polo here sounds fun. Might join.”
With the ice broken, they dove into the assignment—a case study on market trends in South African agriculture. Spencer took charge, his business brain kicking in, delegating tasks with a confidence that surprised even him. Leila handled data collection, Thabo mapped supply chains, Jared analyzed sustainability impacts, and Max tackled export regulations, his German precision shining through in his detailed notes. Spencer coordinated, his fingers tapping as he sketched a rough framework, blue eyes darting between screens and pages. Max’s accent, lilting over terms like “tariffs” and “subsidies,” kept drawing Spencer’s attention, a curiosity he couldn’t shake.
After three hours, the group called it a day, the table littered with coffee cups and scribbled notes. “Solid progress,” Spencer said, clapping his hands. “Next meet Thursday, same time?” Nods all around, and they packed up, the library emptying as students drifted out. Max lingered, zipping his backpack, and Spencer saw his chance. “Hey, Max!” Spencer called, jogging to catch up as Max headed for the exit. The German turned, blue eyes curious behind his glasses. “Ja?” he asked, adjusting his bag.
“Fancy a coffee? There’s a spot just off campus—good beans, my treat,” Spencer said, turning on the charm, his grin wide and inviting. Max hesitated, then smiled. “Sure, why not? I could use a break.” They walked to The Bean Counter, a cozy café with wooden tables and the rich aroma of freshly roasted coffee. Spencer ordered his pour-over Kenyan blend, precise as always, while Max opted for a cappuccino, his accent ordering with a crisp “Danke” that made Spencer’s pulse tick up.
They settled at a corner table, the hum of conversation around them a soft backdrop. Spencer leaned in, blue eyes locking on Max’s. “So, Munich to Stellenbosch—big jump, hey? What’s it like leaving all that behind?”
Max stirred his cappuccino, the foam swirling. “Ja, it’s strange. Munich’s all orderly—buses on time, snow in winter. Here, it’s wild, the heat, the open spaces. My family’s adjusting—Dad’s obsessed with the Cape Town beaches, Mum’s loving the new food from the neighbours. I miss my mates, though. Soccer was my life.” His English was flawless, the German lilt adding a melodic edge that Spencer found intoxicating.
“Wild’s right,” Spencer laughed, tapping his fingers. “I’m from Joburg—concrete jungle, no farms ‘til I got here. Water polo’s my escape, keeps me sane. You should join the team—your build’s perfect for it.” He flashed a flirty smile, testing the waters, and Max’s cheeks pinked slightly, a reaction that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Vielleicht—maybe,” Max said, sipping his coffee. “I’d need to learn the rules. Tell me about you, Spencer. What else? You seem… driven.” His eyes held a spark, curious and open, and Spencer leaned into it, charm dialed up.
“Oh, I’m a bit of everything,” Spencer said, voice low and teasing. “Piano kid turned debate champ, now trying to run this uni. Grew up with money, lost some of it when Dad’s business tanked—learned quick to stand on my own. And you… those glasses, that accent—you’re a mystery, Max. What’s under the scholar vibe?” He tilted his head, picking up a vibe—Max’s slight lean forward, the way his eyes lingered.
Max chuckled, a nervous edge to it. “Not much mystery. I like structure—economics, soccer, vinyl records. Moving here, thought I’d fit in, but it’s… different. You’re bold, Spencer. Confident. It’s nice.” His gaze dropped, then flicked back up, a hint of flirtation mirroring Spencer’s.
The conversation flowed, coffee cups emptying as they traded stories—Spencer’s Joburg nights, Max’s Munich winters, both admitting a love for music that led to a playful debate over vinyl versus streaming. Spencer’s charm worked its magic, his smiles lingering, his knee brushing Max’s under the table, a subtle test. Max didn’t pull away, his own smile growing bolder, a spark igniting between them. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” Max teased, and Spencer grinned, leaning closer. “Only the good kind. Wanna see more? My room’s got a killer view—and some Miriam Makeba to spin.”
Max’s breath caught, but he nodded, a shy “Ja, let’s go” sealing it. They left the café, the air charged with anticipation, Spencer leading the way to his dorm with a swagger that promised more.
The dorm room door clicked shut behind them, the faint hum of campus fading as Spencer flicked on a desk lamp, casting a warm glow over the vinyl crates and his neatly made bed. Max stood awkwardly by the window, backpack still on, blue eyes darting around, taking in the space. Spencer stepped closer, shedding his leather jacket, his white button-down clinging to his lean frame. “Relax, bru,” he said, voice smooth, turning on the record player. Miriam Makeba’s soulful voice filled the room, a sultry backdrop as he moved to Max, hands brushing his arms. “Glad you came.”
Max swallowed, glasses fogging slightly from the heat rising between them. “Ja, me too,” he murmured, letting Spencer guide his backpack off, their bodies inches apart. Spencer made the first move, cupping Max’s face, his thumb tracing the German’s jaw as he leaned in. Their lips met, tentative at first, then hungry, a clash of tongues and breath. Max reciprocated eagerly, hands gripping Spencer’s shirt, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening with a needy edge.
Clothes came off fast—Spencer unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall, while Max tugged off his sweater, revealing a toned chest with a light dusting of blonde hair. Jeans hit the floor, Spencer’s boxer-briefs tenting with his hard 6-inch cock, Max’s black briefs straining over a thicker 7-inch uncut one, the outline clear. They stumbled to the bed, laughing into the kiss, hands exploring—Spencer’s fingers tracing Max’s abs, Max’s hands sliding down Spencer’s back, squeezing his ass.
Spencer pushed Max onto the mattress, climbing over him, their cocks brushing through fabric. “You’re gorgeous,” Spencer breathed, peeling Max’s briefs down, freeing his cock—straight, thick, the head flushed red, a vein pulsing along the shaft. Max groaned, kicking the briefs off, then tugged Spencer’s down, cock throbbing, blonde fuzz framing it. They ground together, naked now, precum slicking their skin, moans mixing with Makeba’s melody.
Spencer kissed his way down Max’s chest down to his cock, sliding his foreskin back then taking Maxs cock in his mouth in one gentle slide. Sucking Max’s cock for a few minutes while Max grabbed the back of Spencer’s head and ramming his cock down Spencer’s throat. Spencer grabbed the lube from the drawer, slicking his fingers, and reached behind himself teasing the tight ring. “You ready for this?” he asked, voice husky. Max nodded his head, nervous but eager. “ja, please.” Max took over teasing Spencer’s hole. Working him open, one finger, then two, curling inside, stretching, Spencer’s gasps fueling him. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Max muttered, adding a third, pumping slow, watching Spencer’s face contort with pleasure.
Spencer moaned, legs spreading, “Ja, like that” his cock leaking on to his stomach. Max prepped him thoroughly, then slicked his 7 inches glistening, ready.
He positioned himself, the head pressing against Spencer’s hole, and pushed in slow, stretching him wide. Spencer gasped, a sharp “Fuuuck” escaping as Max filled him, inch by inch, until their hips met. Max paused, breathing hard, “Okay?” Spencer nodded, gripping the sheets. “Yes! Fuck me!” Max thrust, steady at first, then harder, his lean frame driving into Spencer with a rhythm that built fast. The bed creaked, the headboard tapping, their moans loud and raw—Spencer’s high and desperate, Max’s deep and guttural.
Max gripped Spencer’s hips, lifting them, pounding deeper, hitting that spot that made Spencer arch, crying out. “Oh fuck, Max, yes!” His cock bobbed, untouched, precum pooling. Max leaned down, kissing him messy, their tongues tangling as he fucked harder, the slap of skin echoing. Spencer’s hand flew to his cock, stroking fast, the dual sensation pushing him to the edge.
Max came first, a low “Scheiße” ripping from him as he buried himself deep, cum flooding Spencer’s ass, hot and thick, his thrusts erratic. The feel of it triggered Spencer, his cock pulsing as he shot, ropes of cum splattering his chest, some hitting his chin, a messy, shuddering release. Max kept moving, milking his orgasm, then collapsed onto Spencer, both panting, sticky with sweat and cum.
They lay there, tangled, the record spinning to silence, the room heavy with sex and satisfaction. Max’s head rested on Spencer’s chest, blue eyes soft behind fogged glasses. “That was… wow,” he murmured, accent thick. Spencer grinned, hand in Max’s hair. “Ja, bru. Welcome to Stellenbosch.” The night stretched ahead, their connection hot but laced with an understanding that it was just sex, no expectations.
His economics group assignment loomed, a group project due in two weeks, and he’d arranged to meet his classmates at the university library at 10 a.m. Grabbing his laptop and a notebook, he slung his water polo branded backpack over his shoulder and headed out, the campus quiet save for the occasional jogger or bleary-eyed student nursing a hangover from Saturday’s revelry.
The library’s upper floor was a haven of hushed voices and rustling pages, the long oak tables bathed in natural light from tall windows. Spencer arrived first, claiming a spot near the back where the group could spread out. His four classmates trickled in over the next ten minutes, each a familiar face from his Business Management lectures, though their interactions had been limited to nods and occasional group chats. The fifth, however, was a wildcard—Max, a name he’d seen on the group email but never matched to a person until now.
First to join was Leila Patel, a petite 19-year-old with warm brown skin and a cascade of black hair tied in a loose braid. She slid into the chair across from Spencer, her Economics textbook thumping onto the table. “Morning, Spence,” she said with a tired smile, her voice carrying a soft Durban lilt. Spencer grinned, leaning back. “Ja, good to see you, Leila.”
Next came Thabo Mokoena, a broad-shouldered 20-year-old with a shaved head and a perpetual smirk. He dropped into the seat beside Leila, his laptop bag slung over one arm. “Yo, Clarke, how’s it going?” he said, his Johannesburg accent thick. Spencer chuckled, tapping his fingers in that piano rhythm. “All good, bru. Ready to crush this.”
Then came Jared Strauss, 21, with short-cropped hair dyed a vibrant purple and a nose ring glinting in the light. He settled next to Spencer, his notebook already open. “Hey, Spencer,” he said, his voice calm but edged with a Cape Town twang. “Good to work with you on this.” He nodded, blue eyes twinkling. “Same here, Jared.”
Finally, the door swung open, and Max stepped in, drawing every eye. He was 19, about 5’11”, with a lean, athletic build that suggested soccer or track, his posture upright but relaxed. His blonde hair was a touch longer than Spencer’s, swept back in a casual wave, and his fair skin carried a faint flush, likely from the South African sun he was still adjusting to. His blue eyes, a shade lighter than Spencer’s, held a quiet intensity, framed by wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a studious air. He wore a fitted gray sweater over dark jeans, a minimalist backpack slung over one shoulder, and his German accent cut through the room as he introduced himself. “Guten Morgen, I’m Max Weber. Just moved here from Munich over December. Still figuring out this place—nice to meet you all.”
Spencer’s interest piqued instantly, the accent rolling over him like a wave—precise yet warm, a perfect English overlaying the German cadence. He leaned forward, extending a hand. “Spencer Clarke, good to meet you, Max. Welcome to the chaos. You’re the new guy, hey?” Max shook his hand, a firm grip, and nodded with a shy smile. “Ja, still a bit lost, but I’m excited. Economics is my thing—hope I can keep up.”
The group exchanged quick bios—Leila from Durban, aiming for a finance career; Thabo from Joburg, dreaming of starting his own business; Jared from Cape Town, passionate about sustainable markets. Spencer shared his Johannesburg roots and water polo captaincy, his charm easing the introductions. Max explained his family’s move—his father, a German engineer, relocated to Cape Town for a renewable energy project, dragging Max to Stellenbosch for university. “Left my soccer team behind,” Max added, adjusting his glasses. “But water polo here sounds fun. Might join.”
With the ice broken, they dove into the assignment—a case study on market trends in South African agriculture. Spencer took charge, his business brain kicking in, delegating tasks with a confidence that surprised even him. Leila handled data collection, Thabo mapped supply chains, Jared analyzed sustainability impacts, and Max tackled export regulations, his German precision shining through in his detailed notes. Spencer coordinated, his fingers tapping as he sketched a rough framework, blue eyes darting between screens and pages. Max’s accent, lilting over terms like “tariffs” and “subsidies,” kept drawing Spencer’s attention, a curiosity he couldn’t shake.
After three hours, the group called it a day, the table littered with coffee cups and scribbled notes. “Solid progress,” Spencer said, clapping his hands. “Next meet Thursday, same time?” Nods all around, and they packed up, the library emptying as students drifted out. Max lingered, zipping his backpack, and Spencer saw his chance. “Hey, Max!” Spencer called, jogging to catch up as Max headed for the exit. The German turned, blue eyes curious behind his glasses. “Ja?” he asked, adjusting his bag.
“Fancy a coffee? There’s a spot just off campus—good beans, my treat,” Spencer said, turning on the charm, his grin wide and inviting. Max hesitated, then smiled. “Sure, why not? I could use a break.” They walked to The Bean Counter, a cozy café with wooden tables and the rich aroma of freshly roasted coffee. Spencer ordered his pour-over Kenyan blend, precise as always, while Max opted for a cappuccino, his accent ordering with a crisp “Danke” that made Spencer’s pulse tick up.
They settled at a corner table, the hum of conversation around them a soft backdrop. Spencer leaned in, blue eyes locking on Max’s. “So, Munich to Stellenbosch—big jump, hey? What’s it like leaving all that behind?”
Max stirred his cappuccino, the foam swirling. “Ja, it’s strange. Munich’s all orderly—buses on time, snow in winter. Here, it’s wild, the heat, the open spaces. My family’s adjusting—Dad’s obsessed with the Cape Town beaches, Mum’s loving the new food from the neighbours. I miss my mates, though. Soccer was my life.” His English was flawless, the German lilt adding a melodic edge that Spencer found intoxicating.
“Wild’s right,” Spencer laughed, tapping his fingers. “I’m from Joburg—concrete jungle, no farms ‘til I got here. Water polo’s my escape, keeps me sane. You should join the team—your build’s perfect for it.” He flashed a flirty smile, testing the waters, and Max’s cheeks pinked slightly, a reaction that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Vielleicht—maybe,” Max said, sipping his coffee. “I’d need to learn the rules. Tell me about you, Spencer. What else? You seem… driven.” His eyes held a spark, curious and open, and Spencer leaned into it, charm dialed up.
“Oh, I’m a bit of everything,” Spencer said, voice low and teasing. “Piano kid turned debate champ, now trying to run this uni. Grew up with money, lost some of it when Dad’s business tanked—learned quick to stand on my own. And you… those glasses, that accent—you’re a mystery, Max. What’s under the scholar vibe?” He tilted his head, picking up a vibe—Max’s slight lean forward, the way his eyes lingered.
Max chuckled, a nervous edge to it. “Not much mystery. I like structure—economics, soccer, vinyl records. Moving here, thought I’d fit in, but it’s… different. You’re bold, Spencer. Confident. It’s nice.” His gaze dropped, then flicked back up, a hint of flirtation mirroring Spencer’s.
The conversation flowed, coffee cups emptying as they traded stories—Spencer’s Joburg nights, Max’s Munich winters, both admitting a love for music that led to a playful debate over vinyl versus streaming. Spencer’s charm worked its magic, his smiles lingering, his knee brushing Max’s under the table, a subtle test. Max didn’t pull away, his own smile growing bolder, a spark igniting between them. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” Max teased, and Spencer grinned, leaning closer. “Only the good kind. Wanna see more? My room’s got a killer view—and some Miriam Makeba to spin.”
Max’s breath caught, but he nodded, a shy “Ja, let’s go” sealing it. They left the café, the air charged with anticipation, Spencer leading the way to his dorm with a swagger that promised more.
The dorm room door clicked shut behind them, the faint hum of campus fading as Spencer flicked on a desk lamp, casting a warm glow over the vinyl crates and his neatly made bed. Max stood awkwardly by the window, backpack still on, blue eyes darting around, taking in the space. Spencer stepped closer, shedding his leather jacket, his white button-down clinging to his lean frame. “Relax, bru,” he said, voice smooth, turning on the record player. Miriam Makeba’s soulful voice filled the room, a sultry backdrop as he moved to Max, hands brushing his arms. “Glad you came.”
Max swallowed, glasses fogging slightly from the heat rising between them. “Ja, me too,” he murmured, letting Spencer guide his backpack off, their bodies inches apart. Spencer made the first move, cupping Max’s face, his thumb tracing the German’s jaw as he leaned in. Their lips met, tentative at first, then hungry, a clash of tongues and breath. Max reciprocated eagerly, hands gripping Spencer’s shirt, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening with a needy edge.
Clothes came off fast—Spencer unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall, while Max tugged off his sweater, revealing a toned chest with a light dusting of blonde hair. Jeans hit the floor, Spencer’s boxer-briefs tenting with his hard 6-inch cock, Max’s black briefs straining over a thicker 7-inch uncut one, the outline clear. They stumbled to the bed, laughing into the kiss, hands exploring—Spencer’s fingers tracing Max’s abs, Max’s hands sliding down Spencer’s back, squeezing his ass.
Spencer pushed Max onto the mattress, climbing over him, their cocks brushing through fabric. “You’re gorgeous,” Spencer breathed, peeling Max’s briefs down, freeing his cock—straight, thick, the head flushed red, a vein pulsing along the shaft. Max groaned, kicking the briefs off, then tugged Spencer’s down, cock throbbing, blonde fuzz framing it. They ground together, naked now, precum slicking their skin, moans mixing with Makeba’s melody.
Spencer kissed his way down Max’s chest down to his cock, sliding his foreskin back then taking Maxs cock in his mouth in one gentle slide. Sucking Max’s cock for a few minutes while Max grabbed the back of Spencer’s head and ramming his cock down Spencer’s throat. Spencer grabbed the lube from the drawer, slicking his fingers, and reached behind himself teasing the tight ring. “You ready for this?” he asked, voice husky. Max nodded his head, nervous but eager. “ja, please.” Max took over teasing Spencer’s hole. Working him open, one finger, then two, curling inside, stretching, Spencer’s gasps fueling him. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Max muttered, adding a third, pumping slow, watching Spencer’s face contort with pleasure.
Spencer moaned, legs spreading, “Ja, like that” his cock leaking on to his stomach. Max prepped him thoroughly, then slicked his 7 inches glistening, ready.
He positioned himself, the head pressing against Spencer’s hole, and pushed in slow, stretching him wide. Spencer gasped, a sharp “Fuuuck” escaping as Max filled him, inch by inch, until their hips met. Max paused, breathing hard, “Okay?” Spencer nodded, gripping the sheets. “Yes! Fuck me!” Max thrust, steady at first, then harder, his lean frame driving into Spencer with a rhythm that built fast. The bed creaked, the headboard tapping, their moans loud and raw—Spencer’s high and desperate, Max’s deep and guttural.
Max gripped Spencer’s hips, lifting them, pounding deeper, hitting that spot that made Spencer arch, crying out. “Oh fuck, Max, yes!” His cock bobbed, untouched, precum pooling. Max leaned down, kissing him messy, their tongues tangling as he fucked harder, the slap of skin echoing. Spencer’s hand flew to his cock, stroking fast, the dual sensation pushing him to the edge.
Max came first, a low “Scheiße” ripping from him as he buried himself deep, cum flooding Spencer’s ass, hot and thick, his thrusts erratic. The feel of it triggered Spencer, his cock pulsing as he shot, ropes of cum splattering his chest, some hitting his chin, a messy, shuddering release. Max kept moving, milking his orgasm, then collapsed onto Spencer, both panting, sticky with sweat and cum.
They lay there, tangled, the record spinning to silence, the room heavy with sex and satisfaction. Max’s head rested on Spencer’s chest, blue eyes soft behind fogged glasses. “That was… wow,” he murmured, accent thick. Spencer grinned, hand in Max’s hair. “Ja, bru. Welcome to Stellenbosch.” The night stretched ahead, their connection hot but laced with an understanding that it was just sex, no expectations.
The Monday morning sun crept lazily through the blinds of Spencer Clarke’s dorm room, casting soft stripes across the tangled sheets where he lay sprawled. His lean 6’1” frame was still, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint ache in his ass a lingering echo of Max Weber’s relentless pounding the night before. The room smelled faintly of sex—lube, sweat, and the musky scent of their release—and the silence was broken only by the occasional buzz of his phone on the nightstand, group chats lighting up with post-potjie hangover rants and plans for the day. He ignored them, eyes fixed on the ceiling, mind churning as the soreness grounded him in a new awareness. Lectures loomed but Spencer’s mind had other plans.
He shifted, wincing slightly as the tender muscles protested, and a slow grin spread across his face. Max had been good—damn good—his thick 7 inches stretching him in ways that still sent a shiver through him. But it wasn’t just the physical memory that held him captive; it was the shift inside him, a realization crystallizing as he traced the journey of his sexuality. Back in Johannesburg, it had been girls—pretty socialites with sharp tongues and sharper heels, flings that ended with polite goodbyes and a lingering sense of emptiness. Then came Stellenbosch, and with it, Jo van der Merwe—wild, lanky Jo with his freckled grin and farm-boy swagger. Their first-year fling had been all heat and tension, stolen glances and drunken dares, but it never crossed into sex. Jo’s pull had been magnetic, a curiosity Spencer couldn’t shake, but the timing never aligned, and then Jo and Piet were gone, off to the farm.
Second year had changed everything. A trip to Cape Town, a dark club, and a nameless guy with rough hands had pushed Spencer into uncharted territory. That first time bottoming—raw, hard, anonymous—had cracked him open, a rush of pleasure he hadn’t expected. The next day, he’d bought the dildo, a sleek black tool that became his secret weapon, teaching him control, pace, the power of giving himself over. Cruising spots and Grindr hookups followed, each encounter refining his skill as a power bottom—a term he’d stumbled upon online and claimed with pride. He loved it: the way he could dictate the rhythm, draw out the pleasure, leave guys wrecked and begging. It wasn’t just sex; it was leverage, a tool to wield.
Lying there, the ache in his ass sparking fresh thoughts, Spencer’s blue eyes narrowed with purpose. He’d filled Jo and Piet’s void with his potjie triumph, rallied the gang, and last night with Max had proven he could command attention beyond the quad. But he wanted more—captaincy of the water polo team, a bigger stake in the wine shed’s success, a tighter grip on the gang’s dynamic. His charm and business brain had gotten him this far, but his newfound sexual prowess could seal the deal. A plan began to form, bold and calculated, leveraging his body as much as his mind.
Spencer rolled out of bed, the soreness a motivator now, and padded to the shower. Hot water cascaded over him, washing away the night’s residue, his mind racing as he lathered up. Step one: secure the water polo captaincy. Coach had hinted at it after Saturday’s practice, and Kyle’s “captain material” comment had sealed it. But the team was a brotherhood, and loyalty needed earning. He’d use his charm—flirty smiles, late-night strategy sessions—to win over the key players, especially Kyle and the wiry third-year, Liam. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d invite the top contenders to his room, spin some vinyls, and let the tension build. A discreet offer—a taste of his tight ass—could tip the scales. He’d control the pace, leave them satisfied and indebted, ensuring their votes when coach called the election next week.
Step two: the wine shed. Rachel, JP, and Doug needed him, their Chenin Blanc scaling issues a golden opportunity. Wednesday’s meeting would be his stage—data crunched, margins mapped, a plan to partner with local distributors. But he wanted equity, a stake in the profits. He’d pitch it as expertise for investment, his business acumen their lifeline. To seal it, he’d target Doug—quiet, intense Doug with those dark eyes that lingered too long. After the meeting, a late-night invite to “discuss details” could end with Spencer on his knees or bent over the shed table, Doug’s gratitude translating to shares. The thought sent a thrill through him, his cock twitching under the spray.
Step three: the gang. Henk and Sarah’s acceptance was a start, but he needed to bind them tighter, especially with Jo and Piet’s shadow still looming. He’d host another potjie gathering inviting the usual suspects. Mid-party, he’d pull Henk aside, test the waters with a flirty wrestle, maybe more if the big man bit. Sarah, sharp and perceptive, might join, a threesome to cement their trust. The others could be swayed with drinks and subtle touches, his power bottom skills a secret weapon to keep them loyal.
Spencer stepped out of the shower, toweling off with a renewed edge. He dressed—khaki shorts, a fitted polo, and grabbed his phone, scrolling the group chats with a smirk. He fired off a messages: “Gang, killer potjie night on Saturday!” “Water polo boys, practice tomorrow, 6 p.m.—let’s smash it! Strat sessions to follow” “Wine shed crew, Wednesday 7 p.m., bring your books. The replies pinged back fast—enthusiasm, commitments—and he felt the power shift, his plan taking root.
He sat at his desk, laptop open, sketching notes. For the captaincy, he’d schedule one-on-one “strategy chats” with Kyle and Liam Tuesday night, vinyl spinning, lube handy. For the wine shed, he’d prep a PowerPoint—supply chain fixes, profit projections—ending with a personal pitch to Doug. For the gang, he’d stock beer, clear space for a wrestle pit, and let the night unfold. His ass, still tender, would be his ace—controlled, offered strategically, a currency to buy influence.
By noon, Spencer was out the door, heading to the gym. He’d train hard, sharpen his water polo game, his lean body a tool as much as his mind. The soreness fuelled him, a reminder of his power, and as he hit the weights, he pictured it: first team water polo captain, a wine bottle with his name on it, the gang orbiting him like planets. Jo and Piet had their farm; he’d build his empire here, one thrust, one deal, one night at a time.
The plan was set, bold and unapologetic. Spencer Clarke, the City Shark, was no longer just riding waves—he was creating them.
He shifted, wincing slightly as the tender muscles protested, and a slow grin spread across his face. Max had been good—damn good—his thick 7 inches stretching him in ways that still sent a shiver through him. But it wasn’t just the physical memory that held him captive; it was the shift inside him, a realization crystallizing as he traced the journey of his sexuality. Back in Johannesburg, it had been girls—pretty socialites with sharp tongues and sharper heels, flings that ended with polite goodbyes and a lingering sense of emptiness. Then came Stellenbosch, and with it, Jo van der Merwe—wild, lanky Jo with his freckled grin and farm-boy swagger. Their first-year fling had been all heat and tension, stolen glances and drunken dares, but it never crossed into sex. Jo’s pull had been magnetic, a curiosity Spencer couldn’t shake, but the timing never aligned, and then Jo and Piet were gone, off to the farm.
Second year had changed everything. A trip to Cape Town, a dark club, and a nameless guy with rough hands had pushed Spencer into uncharted territory. That first time bottoming—raw, hard, anonymous—had cracked him open, a rush of pleasure he hadn’t expected. The next day, he’d bought the dildo, a sleek black tool that became his secret weapon, teaching him control, pace, the power of giving himself over. Cruising spots and Grindr hookups followed, each encounter refining his skill as a power bottom—a term he’d stumbled upon online and claimed with pride. He loved it: the way he could dictate the rhythm, draw out the pleasure, leave guys wrecked and begging. It wasn’t just sex; it was leverage, a tool to wield.
Lying there, the ache in his ass sparking fresh thoughts, Spencer’s blue eyes narrowed with purpose. He’d filled Jo and Piet’s void with his potjie triumph, rallied the gang, and last night with Max had proven he could command attention beyond the quad. But he wanted more—captaincy of the water polo team, a bigger stake in the wine shed’s success, a tighter grip on the gang’s dynamic. His charm and business brain had gotten him this far, but his newfound sexual prowess could seal the deal. A plan began to form, bold and calculated, leveraging his body as much as his mind.
Spencer rolled out of bed, the soreness a motivator now, and padded to the shower. Hot water cascaded over him, washing away the night’s residue, his mind racing as he lathered up. Step one: secure the water polo captaincy. Coach had hinted at it after Saturday’s practice, and Kyle’s “captain material” comment had sealed it. But the team was a brotherhood, and loyalty needed earning. He’d use his charm—flirty smiles, late-night strategy sessions—to win over the key players, especially Kyle and the wiry third-year, Liam. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d invite the top contenders to his room, spin some vinyls, and let the tension build. A discreet offer—a taste of his tight ass—could tip the scales. He’d control the pace, leave them satisfied and indebted, ensuring their votes when coach called the election next week.
Step two: the wine shed. Rachel, JP, and Doug needed him, their Chenin Blanc scaling issues a golden opportunity. Wednesday’s meeting would be his stage—data crunched, margins mapped, a plan to partner with local distributors. But he wanted equity, a stake in the profits. He’d pitch it as expertise for investment, his business acumen their lifeline. To seal it, he’d target Doug—quiet, intense Doug with those dark eyes that lingered too long. After the meeting, a late-night invite to “discuss details” could end with Spencer on his knees or bent over the shed table, Doug’s gratitude translating to shares. The thought sent a thrill through him, his cock twitching under the spray.
Step three: the gang. Henk and Sarah’s acceptance was a start, but he needed to bind them tighter, especially with Jo and Piet’s shadow still looming. He’d host another potjie gathering inviting the usual suspects. Mid-party, he’d pull Henk aside, test the waters with a flirty wrestle, maybe more if the big man bit. Sarah, sharp and perceptive, might join, a threesome to cement their trust. The others could be swayed with drinks and subtle touches, his power bottom skills a secret weapon to keep them loyal.
Spencer stepped out of the shower, toweling off with a renewed edge. He dressed—khaki shorts, a fitted polo, and grabbed his phone, scrolling the group chats with a smirk. He fired off a messages: “Gang, killer potjie night on Saturday!” “Water polo boys, practice tomorrow, 6 p.m.—let’s smash it! Strat sessions to follow” “Wine shed crew, Wednesday 7 p.m., bring your books. The replies pinged back fast—enthusiasm, commitments—and he felt the power shift, his plan taking root.
He sat at his desk, laptop open, sketching notes. For the captaincy, he’d schedule one-on-one “strategy chats” with Kyle and Liam Tuesday night, vinyl spinning, lube handy. For the wine shed, he’d prep a PowerPoint—supply chain fixes, profit projections—ending with a personal pitch to Doug. For the gang, he’d stock beer, clear space for a wrestle pit, and let the night unfold. His ass, still tender, would be his ace—controlled, offered strategically, a currency to buy influence.
By noon, Spencer was out the door, heading to the gym. He’d train hard, sharpen his water polo game, his lean body a tool as much as his mind. The soreness fuelled him, a reminder of his power, and as he hit the weights, he pictured it: first team water polo captain, a wine bottle with his name on it, the gang orbiting him like planets. Jo and Piet had their farm; he’d build his empire here, one thrust, one deal, one night at a time.
The plan was set, bold and unapologetic. Spencer Clarke, the City Shark, was no longer just riding waves—he was creating them.
okay for the first time in the story, I'm kind of pissed at Jo. He is the one who wanted the slow down and at dinner when Gillian kept touching him he knew Piet felt some kind of way about it and afterwards just brushed it off. Then he claimed he was going to get some fresh air knowing damn well he was going to the boys room.
And once he got there, he started trying to get them to do more and during the course of that, he thought about Piet but decided what he was doing at the moment was more important.
- M_11,
I think those pictures were generated from an IA tool.
The gym smelled of sweat and rubber mats, the clank of weights punctuating the low hum of exertion. Spencer Clarke powered through his last set of deadlifts, his lean 6’1” frame glistening under the fluorescent lights, muscles taut from a morning of focus. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead, blue eyes sharp with purpose as he dropped the barbell with a controlled thud. The soreness in his ass from Sunday night with Max had faded to a dull hum, a motivator now, fuelling his drive. Today was about laying groundwork—step one of his plan to lock in the water polo captaincy—and Liam and Kyle were his first targets.
He wiped his hands on his gym shorts, the fitted black fabric clinging to his thighs, and grabbed his phone from the bench. The water polo group chat had been buzzing since his Monday message—“Practice tomorrow, 6 p.m.—let’s smash it! Strat sessions to follow”—and the replies were a mix of hype and banter. Kyle, the wiry third-year with a sharp tongue, had posted a GIF of a shark chomping a ball, captioned “City Shark’s on the hunt!” Liam, leaner and quieter but a beast in the pool, had just dropped a thumbs-up emoji. Perfect. They were engaged, primed for his move.
Spencer opened a private message to Kyle first, fingers tapping out a casual but deliberate invite: “Yo, Kyle, strat chat tonight? My room, 7 p.m. Vinyl and beers—got some ideas to run by you for tomorrow’s practice. You in?” He hit send, then switched to Liam: “Hey, Liam, need your brain for some plays. My place, 8:30 p.m. tonight—vinyl, cold ones, quick session. Cool?” Staggering the times kept it discreet, gave him space to work each angle. He pocketed the phone, grabbed his water bottle, and headed for the showers, a smirk tugging at his lips. The bait was set—now to reel them in.
The replies came fast as he rinsed off, the hot water loosening his muscles. Kyle: “Lekker, Spense! I’m there—better have Castle Lager, none of that craft kak.” Liam: “Ja, sounds good. See you at 8:30.” Spencer’s grin widened under the spray. Both hooked, no pushback. He’d stocked the mini fridge with Castle Lager yesterday—knew Kyle’s taste from last week’s post-practice beers—and his vinyl crates held Johnny Clegg and Miriam Makeba, crowd-pleasers with enough edge to keep the vibe loose. The lube and dildo stayed tucked in the drawer, a quiet option if charm alone didn’t seal it. He wasn’t planning to push that far—not yet—but the possibility simmered, a card to play if the moment called for it.
By 6:45 p.m., Spencer Clarke had the room prepped, the air humming with anticipation. The desk lamp glowed warm, casting soft shadows over the vinyl crates and his single bed, sheets crisp but slightly rumpled—a deliberate touch of casual. Johnny Clegg’s “Scatterlings of Africa” spun low on the record player, the beat steady and inviting. The mini fridge under his desk was stocked with Castle Lager, condensation already beading on the bottles. He’d ditched the chinos and polo from his earlier plan, opting instead for a pair of black gym shorts—short, tight, and riding high on his lean thighs. No underwear, just the thin fabric clinging to his hips, his 6-inch cut cock free beneath, a subtle bulge hinting at his confidence. His torso was bare, blonde fuzz catching the light across his chest, blue eyes sharp with intent as he cracked the window to let the evening breeze in.
He set two Castle Lagers on the desk beside a notebook with half-assed play diagrams—enough to sell the “strategy” excuse—and leaned against the wall, one leg bent, waiting. The shorts shifted as he moved, the hem teasing the edge of his ass, a calculated flex of control. Kyle was the louder one, the ego-driven third-year who’d need more than banter to sway. Spencer’s plan was simple: charm him, tease him, and if it took more, he’d ride it out—literally.
A sharp knock hit the door at 7:02 p.m. Spencer crossed the room, bare feet silent on the floor, and swung it open with a grin. “Bru, you made it—come in.” Kyle stepped inside, wiry frame buzzing with energy, dark hair mussed from the wind. He wore a faded Springboks tee and cargo shorts, water polo bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes flicked over Spencer—chest bare, shorts barely there—and he smirked, dropping the bag by the door. “Geez, Spense, you planning a workout or a strip show?”
Spencer laughed, handing him a Castle Lager, the cold bottle slick in his grip. “Just keeping it loose, bru. Hot as hell out there—cheers.” He clinked his own bottle against Kyle’s, taking a swig, then flopped onto the bed, sprawling back on his elbows. The shorts rode up higher, the outline of his cock more pronounced now, a casual dare. “Clegg’s spinning—thought it’d set the vibe. You good?”
“Ja, lekker tunes,” Kyle said, cracking his beer and leaning against the desk, eyes lingering on Spencer’s frame a beat too long. “So, what’s this strat chat? You gunning for captain or what?”
Spencer grinned, sitting up slow, letting the shorts shift again, teasing the edge of exposure. “Straight to it, hey? Ja, I want it—team’s got potential, but we’re sloppy. Defense is kak, wings drift wide—you’ve seen it. I can tighten that shit up, but I need the boys behind me. You’re quick out there, Kyle—reckon you’d be key.”
Kyle took a swig, smirking. “Maybe. Liam’s solid in the cage, but Dylan’s got seniority—loud prick, though. Why you over him?” His tone was sceptical, testing, his vote not a given.
Spencer stood, stepping closer, bare chest inches from Kyle’s. He tilted his head, blue eyes locking on Kyle’s brown ones, voice dropping low and smooth. “Dylan’s all noise, no brain—I’ve got the plays, the fire. You’ve seen me in the pool, bru— barking orders, pushing us harder. I’d make us killers, not just splashers. Need your vote, though—can’t do it without you.” He let his hand brush Kyle’s arm, light but deliberate, then turned, bending slightly to grab the notebook from the bed, the shorts riding up to flash the curve of his ass.
Kyle’s breath hitched, eyes darting down, then back up. “Ja, you’ve got balls, Spense—I’ll give you that. But I’m not sold yet. What’s in it for me?” He crossed his arms, grinning, but the flush on his neck betrayed him.
Spencer straightened, tossing the notebook aside, and closed the gap again, standing so close their thighs nearly touched. “What do you want, bru? A wingman who’s got your back? Or something… extra?” He smirked, fingers hooking the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down just enough to tease the blonde fuzz at his base, his cock half-hard now, pressing against the fabric. “I’m good at making deals, Kyle. Name it.”
Kyle’s grin faltered, replaced by a hungry edge. “Fok, you’re trouble,” he muttered, setting his beer down, hands flexing like he wasn’t sure where to put them. “You serious?”
“Dead serious,” Spencer said, stepping back to the bed and sitting, legs spread wide, shorts tenting now. He patted the space beside him, voice husky. “C’mere. Let’s sort this out.” Kyle hesitated, then crossed the room, sinking onto the mattress, the air crackling between them.
Spencer made the move, leaning in, lips brushing Kyle’s ear. “You vote for me, I’ll make it worth it,” he whispered, hand sliding up Kyle’s thigh, firm and slow. Kyle groaned, head tipping back, and that was the green light. Spencer swung a leg over, straddling Kyle’s lap, the shorts riding up completely now, his bare cock pressing against Kyle’s cargo shorts. He ground down, slow and deliberate, grinning as Kyle’s hands gripped his hips.
“Fok, Spense,” Kyle rasped, tugging his own shirt off, revealing a wiry, tanned chest. Spencer peeled the shorts off entirely, tossing them aside, naked now, his 6-inch cock hard and leaking against Kyle’s stomach. Kyle fumbled with his cargos, shoving them down with his boxers, freeing a 6.5-inch uncut cock, thick and flushed, the head slick with precum.
Spencer grabbed the lube from the drawer—already open from Sunday—squirting it into his palm. He slicked Kyle up, stroking him fast, then coated his own hole, fingers dipping in to stretch himself quick and dirty. “You’re gonna love this, bru,” he said, voice low, positioning himself over Kyle’s cock. He sank down slow, the thick head breaching him, a sharp stretch that made him gasp. Kyle groaned loud, hands clamping Spencer’s ass, and Spencer took it all, bottoming out with a shudder.
Then he moved—power bottom mode on, hips rolling with precision, tight and controlled. He clenched around Kyle, riding him hard, dictating the pace, every thrust hitting his spot just right. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Kyle grunted, thrusting up to match, but Spencer stayed in charge, leaning forward to kiss him—hot, messy, all tongue. His hands braced on Kyle’s chest, nails digging in, driving him wild.
Kyle’s moans turned desperate, hips bucking erratic as Spencer worked him, ass gripping like a vice, pulling him deeper. “Shit, Spense—I’m gonna—” Kyle’s warning cut off, his cock pulsing as he came hard, hot spurts flooding Spencer’s ass, his whole body shaking. Spencer kept riding, milking every drop, his own cock untouched but throbbing, precum dripping onto Kyle’s abs.
Kyle slumped back, panting, sweat slicking his chest. “Fok, man… you’re insane.” Spencer grinned, easing off slow, cum leaking down his thigh as he collapsed beside him. He caught his breath, then nudged Kyle’s shoulder. “So, bru—got my vote?”
Kyle laughed, rough and spent, rolling to face him. “Ja, Spense, you’ve got it. Captain City Shark, hands down—Dylan can suck it.” He smirked, wiping sweat from his brow. “That was… fuck, worth it.”
“Lekker,” Spencer said, stretching out, unbothered by the mess. “See you at practice—bring that wing energy.” Kyle nodded, pulling his clothes back on, still dazed as he grabbed his bag and stumbled out at 7:50 p.m., a loyal soldier now.
Spencer lay back, cum cooling inside him, a satisfied smirk on his face. One vote locked, his power bottom skills sealing the deal. Liam was next, and the night was young. The City Shark was hunting, and the captaincy was his to take.
Spencer Clarke stood naked in the centre of his dorm room, the faint hum of Johnny Clegg fading as the record spun out. Kyle had left ten minutes ago, stumbling out dazed and pledged, leaving Spencer with a throbbing ache in his ass and a smirk on his face. Kyle’s thick load still sat warm inside him, a slick reminder of his triumph—one vote down. The air smelled of sweat and sex, the bed a mess of tangled sheets and lube-slick spots. Liam was due in twenty minutes, and Spencer buzzed with the challenge, the soreness in his hole a delicious spark driving him forward.
He grabbed his black gym shorts from the floor—tiny, tight, barely-there—and tugged them on, the fabric stretching over his lean hips. No underwear, just his 6-inch cut cock nestling against the cotton, half-hard from the lingering heat of Kyle’s pounding. The shorts rode low, the hem teasing the curve of his ass, still tender and stretched from Kyle’s relentless thrusts. He winced slightly as he bent to remake the bed, smoothing the white sheets and navy throw with quick, practiced moves, the ache pulsing deep, making his pulse race. A fresh Castle Lager sat on the desk beside two more for Liam, the mini fridge stocked and ready. He swapped Clegg for Miriam Makeba’s “Pata Pata,” the sultry rhythm filling the room as he sank onto the bed, sipping his beer, legs spread wide. The shorts shifted, the bulge more pronounced, and he grinned—Liam was next, and this one would take work.
A soft knock at the door at 8:32 p.m., right on cue. Spencer set the beer down, crossed the room barefoot, and swung it open, leaning against the frame with a lazy grin. “Bru, you’re here—come in.” Liam stepped inside, leaner than Kyle, his 5’10” frame quiet and coiled, dark hair damp from a shower, wearing a grey tee and jeans. His water polo cap was tucked under his arm, brown eyes flicking over Spencer—bare chest, tiny shorts, the casual sprawl—and landing on the beer with a nod. “Hey, Spense. Nice setup.”
“Glad you think so,” Spencer said, handing him a Castle Lager and gesturing to the bed. “Take a load off—got some plays to chew over.” Liam settled on the edge, sipping slow, his posture stiff but open, while Spencer leaned against the desk, one leg bent, shorts riding up to flash skin. “You’re the cage king, Liam—team’s backbone. Wanted your take on tightening shit up.”
Liam’s lips twitched, a faint smile. “Ja, defence holds, but the forwards are all over—missed shots kill us. You’ve got the voice, though—could sort it.” His tone was even, no fluff, just observation. Spencer nodded, grabbing the notebook, flipping to a scribbled play. “Spot on. Wings drift too wide—Kyle’s quick, but we need structure. I’m pushing for captain, bru—think I can whip us into shape. You in?”
Liam sipped again, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe. Dylan’s been around longer—got the lads behind him. You’re new blood, Spense—good, but untested. Why you over him?” His voice held a challenge, scepticism thicker than Kyle’s had been. He wasn’t sold, not yet.
Spencer set the notebook down, stepping closer, blue eyes locking on Liam’s. “Dylan’s loud, not smart—runs on fumes. I’ve got the brain, the fire—been barking orders since Joburg pools. You’ve seen me push us, Liam—I’d make us killers. Need your vote, though—you’re the quiet one, but the boys listen.” He flashed a grin, flirty but light, testing, and brushed Liam’s knee with his hand, casual-like.
Liam didn’t flinch, just sipped his beer, gaze steady. “Spense, what’s this? I’m not into games, man.” The flirt went unnoticed, or ignored, his focus on the team, not the vibe. Spencer’s pulse ticked up—Liam was tougher, straighter, less pliable. Time to amp it.
Spencer slid onto the bed beside him, shoulder brushing Liam’s, the shorts riding higher, his bare thigh pressing close. “More than talk, hey? I’m all action—reckon I could prove it.” He let his hand rest on Liam’s leg, higher now, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans, voice dropping husky. “You’re key, Liam—team needs you, I need you. What’s it gonna take?”
Liam tensed, eyes flicking to Spencer’s hand, then up, a frown creasing his brow. “Spense, what’s this? I’m not into games, man.” He shifted, like he might stand, but Spencer moved fast, swinging a leg over to straddle Liam’s lap, pinning him down. The shorts stretched tight, his cock hardening against Liam’s stomach, the ache in his ass flaring as he ground down slow.
“No games, bru—just us,” Spencer breathed, hands on Liam’s shoulders, lips brushing his ear. “You’re horny—I can see it. Let me show you what I’d do for your vote.” Liam’s hands hovered, unsure, then gripped Spencer’s hips, a reluctant groan slipping out. “Fok, Spense—I’m not… I’ve never—”
“First time’s the best,” Spencer cut in, kissing Liam’s neck, hot and slow, teeth grazing. “I’ll take the lead—you just enjoy.” Liam’s resolve cracked, his grip tightening, but he pulled back, standing fast, shoving Spencer off. “Nah, man—I’m out. This isn’t me.” He grabbed his cap, heading for the door, but his jeans tented, his hard-on betraying him.
Spencer jumped up, blocking the exit, naked want in his blue eyes. “Liam, wait—look at you, bru. You want this. No one’s gotta know—just us, one night. I’ll make it so good, you’ll beg for more.” He tugged the shorts down, letting them hit the floor, standing naked, 6 inches hard and leaking. He stepped closer, grabbing Liam’s hand, guiding it to his cock. “Feel that—I’m yours if you stay.”
Liam froze, breath ragged, hand trembling as he gripped Spencer’s shaft. “Fok, you’re insane,” he muttered, but his horniness won, pulling Spencer back to the bed. Clothes came off fast—Liam’s tee and jeans hit the floor, boxers next, revealing a 7-inch uncut cock, straight and thick, the head flushed red, precum beading. Spencer grinned, grabbing the lube, slicking Liam up with slow, firm strokes, then prepping himself, fingers dipping into his already-stretched hole, Kyle’s cum still slick inside.
“Lie back,” Spencer ordered, pushing Liam onto the bed, climbing over him. He sank down slow, guiding Liam’s cock in, the stretch wider than Kyle’s, a sharp burn that made him moan. Liam groaned loud, hands clamping Spencer’s ass, and Spencer started riding—power bottom mode full throttle, hips rolling with precision, clenching tight around Liam’s thick shaft. “Fuck, you’re huge,” Spencer gasped, setting a relentless pace, dominating even from below.
Liam’s eyes widened, overwhelmed, his virgin-to-guys status melting under Spencer’s control. “Shit, so tight,” he rasped, thrusting up, but Spencer dictated it—slow grinds, then fast bounces, driving Liam wild. After minutes, Spencer shifted, pulling off and flipping to his knees, ass up. “From behind, hard,” he demanded, and Liam obeyed, slamming in, the slap of skin echoing, Makeba’s beat drowned out by their moans.
Spencer pushed back, meeting every thrust, his hole gripping like a vice, slick with Kyle’s load and lube. Liam’s hands dug into his hips, bruising, his inexperience raw but hungry. “Fok, Spense—never felt this,” he grunted, pounding deeper, and Spencer grinned through the ache, switching again—onto his side, one leg up, Liam spooning him, thrusting sideways, hitting his spot over and over.
The session stretched—longer than Kyle’s quick burst—sweat dripping, breaths ragged. Spencer flipped them again, onto his back now, legs hoisted over Liam’s shoulders, Liam looming above. “Fuck me hard, bru,” Spencer growled, hand resting near his own cock but not touching, letting the tension build as Liam slammed in, relentless, the bed creaking loud. Liam’s moans turned primal, his thick cock throbbing inside Spencer’s tight, cum-slick hole, driving him to the edge.
“Gonna cum,” Liam choked out, hips stuttering, and Spencer clenched harder, urging him on. Liam erupted, a guttural “Fuuuck” ripping from him as he buried deep, unloading thick ropes into Spencer’s ass, adding to Kyle’s mess, hot and forceful. Spencer’s cock throbbed, precum pooling on his stomach, but he held back, savouring the ache, the power. Liam collapsed onto him, panting hard, their sweaty chests pressed together, cum and lube smearing between them.
Liam buried his face in Spencer’s neck, overwhelmed. After a shaky breath, he whispered, “You’ve got my vote, Spense—fuck, under one condition. We do this again.”
Spencer grinned, breathless, hand raking through Liam’s damp hair. “Deal, bru. Anytime you want.” Liam rolled off, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like he’d just crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Spencer lay beside him, cum leaking from his ass, his own cock still hard and untouched, the ache in his body a throbbing victory. Two votes locked, his power bottom skills rewriting the game.
He wiped his hands on his gym shorts, the fitted black fabric clinging to his thighs, and grabbed his phone from the bench. The water polo group chat had been buzzing since his Monday message—“Practice tomorrow, 6 p.m.—let’s smash it! Strat sessions to follow”—and the replies were a mix of hype and banter. Kyle, the wiry third-year with a sharp tongue, had posted a GIF of a shark chomping a ball, captioned “City Shark’s on the hunt!” Liam, leaner and quieter but a beast in the pool, had just dropped a thumbs-up emoji. Perfect. They were engaged, primed for his move.
Spencer opened a private message to Kyle first, fingers tapping out a casual but deliberate invite: “Yo, Kyle, strat chat tonight? My room, 7 p.m. Vinyl and beers—got some ideas to run by you for tomorrow’s practice. You in?” He hit send, then switched to Liam: “Hey, Liam, need your brain for some plays. My place, 8:30 p.m. tonight—vinyl, cold ones, quick session. Cool?” Staggering the times kept it discreet, gave him space to work each angle. He pocketed the phone, grabbed his water bottle, and headed for the showers, a smirk tugging at his lips. The bait was set—now to reel them in.
The replies came fast as he rinsed off, the hot water loosening his muscles. Kyle: “Lekker, Spense! I’m there—better have Castle Lager, none of that craft kak.” Liam: “Ja, sounds good. See you at 8:30.” Spencer’s grin widened under the spray. Both hooked, no pushback. He’d stocked the mini fridge with Castle Lager yesterday—knew Kyle’s taste from last week’s post-practice beers—and his vinyl crates held Johnny Clegg and Miriam Makeba, crowd-pleasers with enough edge to keep the vibe loose. The lube and dildo stayed tucked in the drawer, a quiet option if charm alone didn’t seal it. He wasn’t planning to push that far—not yet—but the possibility simmered, a card to play if the moment called for it.
By 6:45 p.m., Spencer Clarke had the room prepped, the air humming with anticipation. The desk lamp glowed warm, casting soft shadows over the vinyl crates and his single bed, sheets crisp but slightly rumpled—a deliberate touch of casual. Johnny Clegg’s “Scatterlings of Africa” spun low on the record player, the beat steady and inviting. The mini fridge under his desk was stocked with Castle Lager, condensation already beading on the bottles. He’d ditched the chinos and polo from his earlier plan, opting instead for a pair of black gym shorts—short, tight, and riding high on his lean thighs. No underwear, just the thin fabric clinging to his hips, his 6-inch cut cock free beneath, a subtle bulge hinting at his confidence. His torso was bare, blonde fuzz catching the light across his chest, blue eyes sharp with intent as he cracked the window to let the evening breeze in.
He set two Castle Lagers on the desk beside a notebook with half-assed play diagrams—enough to sell the “strategy” excuse—and leaned against the wall, one leg bent, waiting. The shorts shifted as he moved, the hem teasing the edge of his ass, a calculated flex of control. Kyle was the louder one, the ego-driven third-year who’d need more than banter to sway. Spencer’s plan was simple: charm him, tease him, and if it took more, he’d ride it out—literally.
A sharp knock hit the door at 7:02 p.m. Spencer crossed the room, bare feet silent on the floor, and swung it open with a grin. “Bru, you made it—come in.” Kyle stepped inside, wiry frame buzzing with energy, dark hair mussed from the wind. He wore a faded Springboks tee and cargo shorts, water polo bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes flicked over Spencer—chest bare, shorts barely there—and he smirked, dropping the bag by the door. “Geez, Spense, you planning a workout or a strip show?”
Spencer laughed, handing him a Castle Lager, the cold bottle slick in his grip. “Just keeping it loose, bru. Hot as hell out there—cheers.” He clinked his own bottle against Kyle’s, taking a swig, then flopped onto the bed, sprawling back on his elbows. The shorts rode up higher, the outline of his cock more pronounced now, a casual dare. “Clegg’s spinning—thought it’d set the vibe. You good?”
“Ja, lekker tunes,” Kyle said, cracking his beer and leaning against the desk, eyes lingering on Spencer’s frame a beat too long. “So, what’s this strat chat? You gunning for captain or what?”
Spencer grinned, sitting up slow, letting the shorts shift again, teasing the edge of exposure. “Straight to it, hey? Ja, I want it—team’s got potential, but we’re sloppy. Defense is kak, wings drift wide—you’ve seen it. I can tighten that shit up, but I need the boys behind me. You’re quick out there, Kyle—reckon you’d be key.”
Kyle took a swig, smirking. “Maybe. Liam’s solid in the cage, but Dylan’s got seniority—loud prick, though. Why you over him?” His tone was sceptical, testing, his vote not a given.
Spencer stood, stepping closer, bare chest inches from Kyle’s. He tilted his head, blue eyes locking on Kyle’s brown ones, voice dropping low and smooth. “Dylan’s all noise, no brain—I’ve got the plays, the fire. You’ve seen me in the pool, bru— barking orders, pushing us harder. I’d make us killers, not just splashers. Need your vote, though—can’t do it without you.” He let his hand brush Kyle’s arm, light but deliberate, then turned, bending slightly to grab the notebook from the bed, the shorts riding up to flash the curve of his ass.
Kyle’s breath hitched, eyes darting down, then back up. “Ja, you’ve got balls, Spense—I’ll give you that. But I’m not sold yet. What’s in it for me?” He crossed his arms, grinning, but the flush on his neck betrayed him.
Spencer straightened, tossing the notebook aside, and closed the gap again, standing so close their thighs nearly touched. “What do you want, bru? A wingman who’s got your back? Or something… extra?” He smirked, fingers hooking the waistband of his shorts, tugging them down just enough to tease the blonde fuzz at his base, his cock half-hard now, pressing against the fabric. “I’m good at making deals, Kyle. Name it.”
Kyle’s grin faltered, replaced by a hungry edge. “Fok, you’re trouble,” he muttered, setting his beer down, hands flexing like he wasn’t sure where to put them. “You serious?”
“Dead serious,” Spencer said, stepping back to the bed and sitting, legs spread wide, shorts tenting now. He patted the space beside him, voice husky. “C’mere. Let’s sort this out.” Kyle hesitated, then crossed the room, sinking onto the mattress, the air crackling between them.
Spencer made the move, leaning in, lips brushing Kyle’s ear. “You vote for me, I’ll make it worth it,” he whispered, hand sliding up Kyle’s thigh, firm and slow. Kyle groaned, head tipping back, and that was the green light. Spencer swung a leg over, straddling Kyle’s lap, the shorts riding up completely now, his bare cock pressing against Kyle’s cargo shorts. He ground down, slow and deliberate, grinning as Kyle’s hands gripped his hips.
“Fok, Spense,” Kyle rasped, tugging his own shirt off, revealing a wiry, tanned chest. Spencer peeled the shorts off entirely, tossing them aside, naked now, his 6-inch cock hard and leaking against Kyle’s stomach. Kyle fumbled with his cargos, shoving them down with his boxers, freeing a 6.5-inch uncut cock, thick and flushed, the head slick with precum.
Spencer grabbed the lube from the drawer—already open from Sunday—squirting it into his palm. He slicked Kyle up, stroking him fast, then coated his own hole, fingers dipping in to stretch himself quick and dirty. “You’re gonna love this, bru,” he said, voice low, positioning himself over Kyle’s cock. He sank down slow, the thick head breaching him, a sharp stretch that made him gasp. Kyle groaned loud, hands clamping Spencer’s ass, and Spencer took it all, bottoming out with a shudder.
Then he moved—power bottom mode on, hips rolling with precision, tight and controlled. He clenched around Kyle, riding him hard, dictating the pace, every thrust hitting his spot just right. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Kyle grunted, thrusting up to match, but Spencer stayed in charge, leaning forward to kiss him—hot, messy, all tongue. His hands braced on Kyle’s chest, nails digging in, driving him wild.
Kyle’s moans turned desperate, hips bucking erratic as Spencer worked him, ass gripping like a vice, pulling him deeper. “Shit, Spense—I’m gonna—” Kyle’s warning cut off, his cock pulsing as he came hard, hot spurts flooding Spencer’s ass, his whole body shaking. Spencer kept riding, milking every drop, his own cock untouched but throbbing, precum dripping onto Kyle’s abs.
Kyle slumped back, panting, sweat slicking his chest. “Fok, man… you’re insane.” Spencer grinned, easing off slow, cum leaking down his thigh as he collapsed beside him. He caught his breath, then nudged Kyle’s shoulder. “So, bru—got my vote?”
Kyle laughed, rough and spent, rolling to face him. “Ja, Spense, you’ve got it. Captain City Shark, hands down—Dylan can suck it.” He smirked, wiping sweat from his brow. “That was… fuck, worth it.”
“Lekker,” Spencer said, stretching out, unbothered by the mess. “See you at practice—bring that wing energy.” Kyle nodded, pulling his clothes back on, still dazed as he grabbed his bag and stumbled out at 7:50 p.m., a loyal soldier now.
Spencer lay back, cum cooling inside him, a satisfied smirk on his face. One vote locked, his power bottom skills sealing the deal. Liam was next, and the night was young. The City Shark was hunting, and the captaincy was his to take.
Spencer Clarke stood naked in the centre of his dorm room, the faint hum of Johnny Clegg fading as the record spun out. Kyle had left ten minutes ago, stumbling out dazed and pledged, leaving Spencer with a throbbing ache in his ass and a smirk on his face. Kyle’s thick load still sat warm inside him, a slick reminder of his triumph—one vote down. The air smelled of sweat and sex, the bed a mess of tangled sheets and lube-slick spots. Liam was due in twenty minutes, and Spencer buzzed with the challenge, the soreness in his hole a delicious spark driving him forward.
He grabbed his black gym shorts from the floor—tiny, tight, barely-there—and tugged them on, the fabric stretching over his lean hips. No underwear, just his 6-inch cut cock nestling against the cotton, half-hard from the lingering heat of Kyle’s pounding. The shorts rode low, the hem teasing the curve of his ass, still tender and stretched from Kyle’s relentless thrusts. He winced slightly as he bent to remake the bed, smoothing the white sheets and navy throw with quick, practiced moves, the ache pulsing deep, making his pulse race. A fresh Castle Lager sat on the desk beside two more for Liam, the mini fridge stocked and ready. He swapped Clegg for Miriam Makeba’s “Pata Pata,” the sultry rhythm filling the room as he sank onto the bed, sipping his beer, legs spread wide. The shorts shifted, the bulge more pronounced, and he grinned—Liam was next, and this one would take work.
A soft knock at the door at 8:32 p.m., right on cue. Spencer set the beer down, crossed the room barefoot, and swung it open, leaning against the frame with a lazy grin. “Bru, you’re here—come in.” Liam stepped inside, leaner than Kyle, his 5’10” frame quiet and coiled, dark hair damp from a shower, wearing a grey tee and jeans. His water polo cap was tucked under his arm, brown eyes flicking over Spencer—bare chest, tiny shorts, the casual sprawl—and landing on the beer with a nod. “Hey, Spense. Nice setup.”
“Glad you think so,” Spencer said, handing him a Castle Lager and gesturing to the bed. “Take a load off—got some plays to chew over.” Liam settled on the edge, sipping slow, his posture stiff but open, while Spencer leaned against the desk, one leg bent, shorts riding up to flash skin. “You’re the cage king, Liam—team’s backbone. Wanted your take on tightening shit up.”
Liam’s lips twitched, a faint smile. “Ja, defence holds, but the forwards are all over—missed shots kill us. You’ve got the voice, though—could sort it.” His tone was even, no fluff, just observation. Spencer nodded, grabbing the notebook, flipping to a scribbled play. “Spot on. Wings drift too wide—Kyle’s quick, but we need structure. I’m pushing for captain, bru—think I can whip us into shape. You in?”
Liam sipped again, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe. Dylan’s been around longer—got the lads behind him. You’re new blood, Spense—good, but untested. Why you over him?” His voice held a challenge, scepticism thicker than Kyle’s had been. He wasn’t sold, not yet.
Spencer set the notebook down, stepping closer, blue eyes locking on Liam’s. “Dylan’s loud, not smart—runs on fumes. I’ve got the brain, the fire—been barking orders since Joburg pools. You’ve seen me push us, Liam—I’d make us killers. Need your vote, though—you’re the quiet one, but the boys listen.” He flashed a grin, flirty but light, testing, and brushed Liam’s knee with his hand, casual-like.
Liam didn’t flinch, just sipped his beer, gaze steady. “Spense, what’s this? I’m not into games, man.” The flirt went unnoticed, or ignored, his focus on the team, not the vibe. Spencer’s pulse ticked up—Liam was tougher, straighter, less pliable. Time to amp it.
Spencer slid onto the bed beside him, shoulder brushing Liam’s, the shorts riding higher, his bare thigh pressing close. “More than talk, hey? I’m all action—reckon I could prove it.” He let his hand rest on Liam’s leg, higher now, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans, voice dropping husky. “You’re key, Liam—team needs you, I need you. What’s it gonna take?”
Liam tensed, eyes flicking to Spencer’s hand, then up, a frown creasing his brow. “Spense, what’s this? I’m not into games, man.” He shifted, like he might stand, but Spencer moved fast, swinging a leg over to straddle Liam’s lap, pinning him down. The shorts stretched tight, his cock hardening against Liam’s stomach, the ache in his ass flaring as he ground down slow.
“No games, bru—just us,” Spencer breathed, hands on Liam’s shoulders, lips brushing his ear. “You’re horny—I can see it. Let me show you what I’d do for your vote.” Liam’s hands hovered, unsure, then gripped Spencer’s hips, a reluctant groan slipping out. “Fok, Spense—I’m not… I’ve never—”
“First time’s the best,” Spencer cut in, kissing Liam’s neck, hot and slow, teeth grazing. “I’ll take the lead—you just enjoy.” Liam’s resolve cracked, his grip tightening, but he pulled back, standing fast, shoving Spencer off. “Nah, man—I’m out. This isn’t me.” He grabbed his cap, heading for the door, but his jeans tented, his hard-on betraying him.
Spencer jumped up, blocking the exit, naked want in his blue eyes. “Liam, wait—look at you, bru. You want this. No one’s gotta know—just us, one night. I’ll make it so good, you’ll beg for more.” He tugged the shorts down, letting them hit the floor, standing naked, 6 inches hard and leaking. He stepped closer, grabbing Liam’s hand, guiding it to his cock. “Feel that—I’m yours if you stay.”
Liam froze, breath ragged, hand trembling as he gripped Spencer’s shaft. “Fok, you’re insane,” he muttered, but his horniness won, pulling Spencer back to the bed. Clothes came off fast—Liam’s tee and jeans hit the floor, boxers next, revealing a 7-inch uncut cock, straight and thick, the head flushed red, precum beading. Spencer grinned, grabbing the lube, slicking Liam up with slow, firm strokes, then prepping himself, fingers dipping into his already-stretched hole, Kyle’s cum still slick inside.
“Lie back,” Spencer ordered, pushing Liam onto the bed, climbing over him. He sank down slow, guiding Liam’s cock in, the stretch wider than Kyle’s, a sharp burn that made him moan. Liam groaned loud, hands clamping Spencer’s ass, and Spencer started riding—power bottom mode full throttle, hips rolling with precision, clenching tight around Liam’s thick shaft. “Fuck, you’re huge,” Spencer gasped, setting a relentless pace, dominating even from below.
Liam’s eyes widened, overwhelmed, his virgin-to-guys status melting under Spencer’s control. “Shit, so tight,” he rasped, thrusting up, but Spencer dictated it—slow grinds, then fast bounces, driving Liam wild. After minutes, Spencer shifted, pulling off and flipping to his knees, ass up. “From behind, hard,” he demanded, and Liam obeyed, slamming in, the slap of skin echoing, Makeba’s beat drowned out by their moans.
Spencer pushed back, meeting every thrust, his hole gripping like a vice, slick with Kyle’s load and lube. Liam’s hands dug into his hips, bruising, his inexperience raw but hungry. “Fok, Spense—never felt this,” he grunted, pounding deeper, and Spencer grinned through the ache, switching again—onto his side, one leg up, Liam spooning him, thrusting sideways, hitting his spot over and over.
The session stretched—longer than Kyle’s quick burst—sweat dripping, breaths ragged. Spencer flipped them again, onto his back now, legs hoisted over Liam’s shoulders, Liam looming above. “Fuck me hard, bru,” Spencer growled, hand resting near his own cock but not touching, letting the tension build as Liam slammed in, relentless, the bed creaking loud. Liam’s moans turned primal, his thick cock throbbing inside Spencer’s tight, cum-slick hole, driving him to the edge.
“Gonna cum,” Liam choked out, hips stuttering, and Spencer clenched harder, urging him on. Liam erupted, a guttural “Fuuuck” ripping from him as he buried deep, unloading thick ropes into Spencer’s ass, adding to Kyle’s mess, hot and forceful. Spencer’s cock throbbed, precum pooling on his stomach, but he held back, savouring the ache, the power. Liam collapsed onto him, panting hard, their sweaty chests pressed together, cum and lube smearing between them.
Liam buried his face in Spencer’s neck, overwhelmed. After a shaky breath, he whispered, “You’ve got my vote, Spense—fuck, under one condition. We do this again.”
Spencer grinned, breathless, hand raking through Liam’s damp hair. “Deal, bru. Anytime you want.” Liam rolled off, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like he’d just crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Spencer lay beside him, cum leaking from his ass, his own cock still hard and untouched, the ache in his body a throbbing victory. Two votes locked, his power bottom skills rewriting the game.
Liam left at 9:45 p.m., slipping out with a dazed nod and a promise to see Spencer at practice, his cap clutched tight like a lifeline. The dorm room fell silent, save for the faint scratch of the record player’s needle stuck in its groove, Makeba long faded. Spencer lay sprawled on the bed, naked, the air thick with the musk of sex—sweat, lube, and the mingled loads of Kyle and Liam seeping from his stretched hole. His 6-inch cock stood rigid against his stomach, slick with precum, the ache in his ass a pulsing reminder of his conquests. Two votes secured, the captaincy within reach, and he buzzed with it, restless, unsatisfied.
He reached for the lube on the nightstand, squirting a dollop into his palm, and let his hand drift down, wrapping around his shaft. Slow, deliberate strokes at first, his grip firm but teasing, the wet sound mixing with his soft breaths. His other hand slid lower, fingers circling his used hole, tender and slick with cum. He dipped in, two fingers at once, groaning low as the stretch reignited the soreness, Kyle and Liam’s loads coating his digits. He fucked himself shallowly, matching the rhythm of his strokes, edging close but pulling back, letting the tension coil tight in his gut.
The first near-peak hit fast—his cock twitched, precum dripping onto his abs, but he stopped, squeezing the base, breathing hard through it. “Fok,” he muttered, grinning to himself, the power of it intoxicating. He started again, slower this time, fingers curling deeper, brushing his spot, the cum inside squelching as he worked it. His mind flashed to Kyle’s desperate grunts, Liam’s overwhelmed moans, the way he’d owned them both, bending them to his will. Second edge came, thighs trembling, but he eased off, panting, letting it subside.
Third time, he pushed harder—three fingers now, stretching wide, his hole clenching around them as he stroked faster, the bed creaking under his shifting weight. His balls tightened, the brink so close he could taste it, but he stopped again, a frustrated growl escaping. Sweat beaded on his chest, blonde fuzz matting, and he reveled in the torture, the control, the ache of it all. Fourth time, he gave in—fingers pumping deep, hand flying on his cock, no holding back. “Fuck, yes,” he gasped, hips bucking as the orgasm tore through him.
His cock erupted, a massive load blasting out—thick, white ropes splattering his chest, one hitting his chin, another streaking across his collarbone, pooling in the hollow of his stomach. It kept coming, pulse after pulse, more than he’d ever shot, the release seismic after hours of buildup. His fingers stilled, buried in his cum-soaked hole, and he collapsed back, chest heaving, a lazy grin spreading as the aftershocks faded. The room spun slowly, the ache in his ass a sweet victory, cum leaking out to stain the sheets, his own load drying sticky on his skin.
Spencer’s blue eyes drifted shut, exhaustion claiming him, and he fell asleep sprawled there—naked, messy, triumphant. In his dreams, the water polo captaincy was his, the team chanting “City Shark” as he stood at the pool’s edge, Liam and Kyle flanking him, their votes a bond forged in sweat and seed. The night swallowed him whole, cum crusting on his chest, a king in his own chaos, ready to conquer the rest.
He reached for the lube on the nightstand, squirting a dollop into his palm, and let his hand drift down, wrapping around his shaft. Slow, deliberate strokes at first, his grip firm but teasing, the wet sound mixing with his soft breaths. His other hand slid lower, fingers circling his used hole, tender and slick with cum. He dipped in, two fingers at once, groaning low as the stretch reignited the soreness, Kyle and Liam’s loads coating his digits. He fucked himself shallowly, matching the rhythm of his strokes, edging close but pulling back, letting the tension coil tight in his gut.
The first near-peak hit fast—his cock twitched, precum dripping onto his abs, but he stopped, squeezing the base, breathing hard through it. “Fok,” he muttered, grinning to himself, the power of it intoxicating. He started again, slower this time, fingers curling deeper, brushing his spot, the cum inside squelching as he worked it. His mind flashed to Kyle’s desperate grunts, Liam’s overwhelmed moans, the way he’d owned them both, bending them to his will. Second edge came, thighs trembling, but he eased off, panting, letting it subside.
Third time, he pushed harder—three fingers now, stretching wide, his hole clenching around them as he stroked faster, the bed creaking under his shifting weight. His balls tightened, the brink so close he could taste it, but he stopped again, a frustrated growl escaping. Sweat beaded on his chest, blonde fuzz matting, and he reveled in the torture, the control, the ache of it all. Fourth time, he gave in—fingers pumping deep, hand flying on his cock, no holding back. “Fuck, yes,” he gasped, hips bucking as the orgasm tore through him.
His cock erupted, a massive load blasting out—thick, white ropes splattering his chest, one hitting his chin, another streaking across his collarbone, pooling in the hollow of his stomach. It kept coming, pulse after pulse, more than he’d ever shot, the release seismic after hours of buildup. His fingers stilled, buried in his cum-soaked hole, and he collapsed back, chest heaving, a lazy grin spreading as the aftershocks faded. The room spun slowly, the ache in his ass a sweet victory, cum leaking out to stain the sheets, his own load drying sticky on his skin.
Spencer’s blue eyes drifted shut, exhaustion claiming him, and he fell asleep sprawled there—naked, messy, triumphant. In his dreams, the water polo captaincy was his, the team chanting “City Shark” as he stood at the pool’s edge, Liam and Kyle flanking him, their votes a bond forged in sweat and seed. The night swallowed him whole, cum crusting on his chest, a king in his own chaos, ready to conquer the rest.
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