Jock Sniffer

Reposted from the Nifty Archive
From: Robert Hanlen
Subject: Jock Sniffer

The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is
entirely coincidental. If male-to-male sexual scenes offend you, then you
should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years old,
the laws in most areas state that you’re just too young to read filth like
this.

Robert ‘StrayF’ Hanlen
strayf.hanlen@gmail.com

Jock Sniffer

I was running late.

I’d had to spend half an hour with one of my fucking teachers preparing for
some pathetic school function and now I was late to get to the gym to tidy
up after rugby training. If I skipped this sad little job, Coach would be
totally pissed and I’d never hear the end of it.

The gym was locked and deserted by the time I got there but coach had given
me a key so it was no major hassle. I got into the locker room and started
picking up towels and the accumulated rubbish from the rugby jocks in
preparation to mop the whole place out. I’d been doing the same job every
day for a couple of months and, apart from the pathetic pay I received
there had been no real advantages. True, I did get to hang out in the
locker while the rugby boys stripped, showered and changed into their
street clothes but there was no hint of sexuality about it all. I’d jerk
off at night thinking about those hot, sweaty jock bodies but even that
little fantasy got tired after the first two months …. Now I just did my
job, put up with their good-natured ribbing and got out as soon as
possible.

As I got on with the routine clean-up I took the time to savour the smell
of the place. That was one part of the job I still enjoyed: the mingled
smells of sweat, piss, shit – man smells. Fuck! There’s nothing like that
stench! If someone could bottle that smell, they’d make a fortune out of
closeted fag sluts like me.

I did a final check for towels: all students were responsible for washing
their own gear so there was never anything else but the school-supplied
towels … except for today. Hanging on a hook, like some worshipful flag
to testosterone, was someone’s discarded jockstrap.

Odd.

As soon as I lay my eyes on that limp elasticated rag everything seemed to
stop; my entire focus was on that jockstrap. I felt guilty, naughty as I
approached it – but fuck it! I was just doing my job! Just cleaning out the
locker-room …

I put my face up close, not daring to touch this holy relic, and breathed
in its funk …

This was a well-used jock.

It hadn’t seen a washing machine in God knows how long. The pouch was a
uniform grey with splotches of yellow, brown. The elastic round the legs
was stretched …

And it smelled fuckin’ glorious! The acrid, earthy stench of Man; the
accumulated sweat from dick, nuts, ass; the rich smell of old piss; the
lingering hint of a jock dump. Fuck! I loved it!

I hadn’t even touched the fuckin’ thing and my dick was rock hard, my head
was spinning … it was like a fuckin’ P high without the associated shit!

I looked around, guiltily. I knew the gym was totally deserted but I
checked anyway. If anyone caught me getting my fuckin’ teen rocks off over
someone’s discarded jockstrap, I’d never hear the end of it.

Satisfied that I was totally alone, I tentatively took the thing off the
hook, brought it up to my face and breathed in. The second that smell hit
my brain I knew I’d found heaven …. As I buried my nose in it, snorting
up those ripe fuckin’ smells and groaning like a bitch in heat, I ripped
off my clothes and started pounding my dick. This was so fuckin’ hot, so
depraved, so …

“What the fuck …!?”

Shit! I spun around as the door to the locker-room slammed open. Someone
was standing in the doorway – I couldn’t see his face … the locker-room
was gloomy but the strong light in the hallway threw this intruder into
sillouhette.

“What the fuck are you doing in here, boy?”

I grabbed a towel and covered myself as best as I could.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, “I was just cleaning up after practice and
… and …”

“Shut the fuck up, boy,” he replied. Despite my panic at being discovered
like this, some logical part of my mind was desperately trying to figure
out just who the fuck this mystery invader was. I could see from his
silhouette that he was a big bastard; broad shoulders, slender waist, tall
…

“You always clean out this room bare-assed naked, boy?”

“Er, no … I was … I was just gonna take a shower,” I lied.

“Don’t hear no water running,” he replied. “And I never heard of anyone
using a skanky old jock strap as a cleanin’ cloth before.”

I realised, to my horror, that I was still holding on to the filthy
jockstrap. “Someone left it behind and I was …”

“… breathing in the funk of a real man and beating your pathetic faggot
dick,” he finished for me. “You are one sick little fuck-up, you know that?
Well, no point in stopping your ‘work’ just because I’m here. Lose the
towel, faggot.”

I must have looked confused because he suddenly barked at me, “Lose the
fuckin’ towel, dick-breath! You were naked when I came in here, you carry
on being naked.”

I had no choice in the matter. This guy was a big bastard who could easily
bust my head open – and he was blocking the only entrance. I dropped the
towel. He gave a crude chuckle as I vainly attempted to cover myself with
the jockstrap.

“There, see,” he said, “Isn’t that better already? Now, let’s see, what
else were you doing before I so rudely interrupted you …? Say, wasn’t
your dick hard when I came in?”

This was getting ridiculous. I turned bright red and stammered, “Look, I’m
sorry if I offended …”

“Answer the fuckin’ question, faggot!” he bellowed. “I don’t need your
limp-dicked excuses: I asked you a fuckin’ question and you’ll fuckin’
answer it! Was your pathetic little fag dick hard when I came into this
room?”

Shocked at this outburst, my face burning with humiliation, I stammered,
“Yes …”

“Yes, what, faggot?”

“Yes, my dick was hard … Sir …”

“‘Bout fucking time you learned some fuckin’ manners …” His voice was
cold, even. “Now, what the fuck was makin’ your little faggot dick so hard?
Let’s see … Weren’t you breathing in the funk from that stinkin’
jockstrap?”

I felt another flush of humiliation surge through me as I replied, “Yes,
Sir …”

“And the stink from a man’s well-used jockstrap really turns you on,
doesn’t it, faggot? Huh? All that funk of dried man-piss, of his fuckin’
sweat, all that stink made your little faggot dick get hard, didn’t it,
dick-breath?”

This guy was scaring the fuck out of me but his words, his manner, were
starting to turn me on … I felt my dick start to swell.

“Yes, Sir,” I replied.

“Show me,” he said. “Show me how you get hard by sniffing a filthy
jockstrap.”

I hesitated, stunned that he would ask me to do such a thing in front of
him.

He sighed, heavily.

“Boy,” he said, “Every time you fail to follow an order properly, you’re
gonna end up payin’ for it … so just get the fuck on with it!”

I seemed to stop breathing as I considered my options … then tentatively
brought the jockstrap closer to my face.

“Good,” he purred. “See, that wasn’t so hard. You were doing it before, you
can do it again now. Now, breathe in that funk, faggot.”

I took a tentative breath in through my nose, briefly inhaling the man
stink.

“You can do better than that, dick-breath,” he growled. “C’mon! bury your
fuckin’ faggot face in that jockstrap, suck up that funk, breathe in that
man-stink!”

Something about this guys attitude told me that I didn’t have much choice
… besides, he’d already caught me red-handed and hadn’t yet beat me to a
pulp. If he wanted to see me in action, what the hell! I buried my face in
that stinking jockstrap and took a good deep breath.

“Yeah, good little faggot,” he murmured. “See, get enough of the man-stink
into your lungs and your dick gets hard all by itself …”

He was right; despite the humiliation of having to breathe in that funky
stink in front of this stranger, my dick was getting rock-hard.

“Go on,” he continued, “Work that pathetic faggot dick just the way you
were when I discovered you. You know you want to. It’s all right. I know
that little faggot pigs like you just can’t control yourselves
sometimes. You can never be a proper man so you have to breathe in the
leftovers of a real man’s body. Go on, suck up that sweat, that piss. Drool
over those fucking cum stains and swallow it all down … I used that jock
as a cum rag just this morning so you’ve even got fairly fresh cum there
…”

By now I was sucking on that stinking piece of cloth for all I was
worth. This situation was so bizarre, his voice so mesmiric and the stink,
the taste, from the jockstrap … His jockstrap! … was like a nasty
ambrosia made just for faggot pigs like me…. My heart was leaping out my
chest, my mind in a complete fog of lust and desire as I pumped my pathetic
faggot dick furiously, rolling around on the floor, moaning, groaning,
while sucking, slurping on the testosterone drenched symbol of manliness
that was now fully stuffed in my mouth.

I screamed in ecstasy as my orgasm overpowered me, blasting over and over.

“Argh! Fuck! Thank you Sir! Thank you for letting me drink your man-stink!
Ngargh!! Ah! Thank you, Sir! Thank you! Thank you …”

I lay panting on the concrete floor of the locker room as the convulsions
of my massive orgasm left me. I was drenched in cum, sweat, drool and was
totally exhausted.

I removed the soggy, filthy jockstrap from my mouth and, filled with
embarrassment, turned to face my anonymous intruder.

The locker-room door was shut.

All was silent.

Copyright 2009 – Robert ‘StrayF’ Hanlen
strayf.hanlen@gmail.com
All Rights Reserved.
Permission is NOT granted to publish this story to any PAY site, nor any
site other than nifty.org, without the author’s prior consent.

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