The Freshmen

In the dim frat house basement, Jack Simmons and Tyson Cane lounge back, their cocks worshipped by a blindfolded recruit's eager mouth. She kneels, lips stretched wide, taking them in turns with sloppy devotion. Soon enough, they slip a blindfold over Eric's eyes too. Jack grins, gripping his shaft, and thrusts it straight down Eric's throat—deep, unyielding. Eric gags but sucks hard, cheeks hollowing as he works the length with fervent pulls. Tyson watches, stroking himself, before the studs pull the pair together. Eric and the other masked freshman lock lips, tongues tangling in a haze of shared heat and mystery. Blindfolds yanked off, the truth hits: roommates, both pledges, staring in stunned recognition. Laughter bubbles up, raw and electric. Lance drops to his knees then, tracing Tyson's chiseled abs and thighs with reverent hands, mouth following to lavish his cock with slow, teasing licks. Eric mirrors him, eyes locked on Jack's, as he swallows him whole—tongue swirling the underside, throat relaxing to take every inch. They rise, bending over the worn bench, asses presented like an invitation. Jack lines up first, slicking his tip before plunging deep into Eric's tight heat. Tyson follows suit with Lance, burying himself in one smooth, claiming stroke. The four move as one, bodies grinding in a slick rhythm—hips snapping, breaths ragged. Sweat slicks their skin; moans echo off concrete walls. They chase the edge, pivoting positions in a tangle of limbs, until release crashes over them. Cocks pulse, spilling hot loads inside and across flesh in shuddering waves.