Sex stories

I’m 28, a born submissive with a filthy kink: sweaty, full balls that reek of man after a hard grind. That night, after work, I hit the gym for a chest session. I’m pumping my pecs, but all I can think about is scoping out guys in the locker room. By 8 p.m., I’m done, take a quick shower, but hang around—black tracksuit, TNs on my feet, lurking near the lockers. Then this rebeu rolls in—a rough lad from the block, maybe 25, 6’1”, jacked, rocking a soaked grey Adidas tracksuit, hood up, dirty white TNs. Fresh off a football match, he’s dripping testosterone from ten feet away.

He catches me staring, flashes a smirk, and struts over, gym bag in hand. “What’s up, mate, you into the vibe?” I mumble something dumb, but he laughs it off: “Chill, I know what you’re after.” He drops his bag, leans against a locker, legs spread. His tracksuit hugs a massive bulge, and the stench—sweat, heat, raw masculinity—gets me hard instantly. I blurt out: “I’m into stinky balls, boss.” He chuckles: “You’re a good pup, huh? Come on, let’s hit the back—it’s dead this late.”

We slip into a corner near the dark showers, no one around. He yanks his tracksuit down to his thighs—no boxers—and his balls spill out: heavy, hairy, glistening with sweat, hitting me with a smell like a fruit juice to the face. “Sniff, slut, enjoy the feast.” I drop to my knees, bury my face in them, and breathe deep. It’s pure post-game funk—sharp, musky, all man—driving me wild. I moan, my tongue grazes his sack, licking slow, tasting every crease. He grunts: “You’re a proper freak, worship them right.” I suck one ball into my mouth, then the other, rolling them on my tongue while he jerks his thick cock above me, getting harder by the second.

I’m in a trance, drooling over his balls, sniffing harder, hands gripping his ripped thighs. He grabs my hair: “You love this, don’t you, my bitch?” “Yes, boss, your balls are fucking unreal.” He laughs, kicks off his tracksuit completely, standing there in filthy white TNs and socks. I pull a hit of popss from my pocket—heat floods me—and dive back in, obsessed. He shoves my head down: “Lick harder, make me feel it.” I go all out, tongue everywhere, his stink owning me—I’m his dog, his toy.

Ten minutes in, he yanks me up, spins me against the wall. “You’ve earned it—stick that ass out.” I drop my tracksuit, arch hard, offering my hole. He spits on his cock—a 20 cm man, thick, veiny—and my ass, then rams it in. I groan loud, it stings, but the popss loosen me up, and he slides deep. “Fuck, you’re tight—I’m gonna fuck you.” He pounds me raw, his balls slapping my cheeks, the stench of his sweaty kicks filling the air. I’m in heaven, whimpering like a slut as he drills me for fifteen minutes, the smacks echoing in the empty locker room.

He growls: “Gonna cum—open your mouth.” He pulls out, spins me around, and I drop to my knees. He unloads—thick ropes blasting my face, my mouth, my chest. I swallow what I can, the strong taste finishing me off. He wipes his dick on my lips, pulls up his tracksuit. “You’re a damn good cum lover. Come back after my next match.” He bails, leaving me naked, his jizz dripping, his ball stink stuck in my nose. I get dressed, head home, and text my man: “Found a boss—his balls me.” He hits back: “Spill it all, slut—I’m fucking you tomorrow.”