SPEEDO TRIO
They were the campus alpha trio — seniors, jocks, and notorious pranksters. Everyone knew them for their sculpted bodies, cocky smiles, and endless gym selfies. But after they were caught spray-painting neon briefs on the founder’s statue, they got an unusual community service punishment: help Milo, a rising star in the fashion program.
Milo was nothing like them. Quiet, sharp-eyed, always dressed like he’d stepped out of a high-end magazine. His final project? A line of speedos that pushed beyond simple fit they were meant to explore desire, attraction, and the blur between looking and being looked at.
“You’ll model them,” Milo said, calm and confident as he handed over the tiny pieces of fabric.
They laughed. “Bro, seriously? These?!”
“Yes,” Milo said. “Try them on. Under those lights. You’ll understand.”
The first guy stomped into the booth, rolling his eyes. But once he pulled the suit up, everything changed. The fabric clung to every muscle, cupping his bulge so snugly he almost gasped. He turned in front of the mirror, and the lights seemed to make his veins pop, his abs look deeper. He felt powerful… and strangely vulnerable at the same time.
When he stepped out, the other two fell silent. Their eyes traveled over every curve and line of his body, lingering on his package, the way the suit framed his hips.
The second guy went next. He stepped into the dark blue suit and felt it stretch tight across his thighs, pressing into his cock so firmly he had to adjust himself. He caught his own reflection and for a second, he didn’t recognize the hungry look in his own eyes.
They stared at each other. Something shifted. The usual jokes and shoves turned into lingering touches, fingers brushing against each other’s sides, slowly drifting down to hips and lower.
The last guy finally stepped out, wearing the white pair with black trim. His chest was heaving already, and the outline of his dick pushed so boldly forward that the other two stopped breathing for a moment.
They closed in. At first, it was just playful flexing and teasing, but soon hands were sliding up firm backs, grabbing ass, pulling each other closer. One guy pressed his face into another’s neck, licking up sweat and letting out a soft groan. Another traced his tongue along a friend’s chest, stopping to suck gently on a nipple until he felt it harden under his lips.
Then one of them dropped to his knees. He ran his face against the white speedo, inhaling the heat, feeling the hard shape inside twitch and push against the fabric. His tongue darted out, teasing the edge, making the guy above him shiver and curse under his breath.
They started grinding against each other, hips moving in slow, heavy rolls. Fingers tugged at waistbands, nails scratched down abs, breaths came out rough and desperate. The room turned into a hot, sweaty mess of flexing muscles, breathy moans, and slippery, teasing touches.
In the corner, Milo watched with wide eyes, his sketchbook nearly slipping from his lap. He didn’t say a word just watched, completely hypnotized, as they gave in to each other and to the strange energy the suits had unlocked.
It didn’t matter anymore who they were outside the room. The jokes, the bragging, all gone. In that moment, it was just raw heat, need, and pure instinct.
After, they slumped to the floor together, skin shining with sweat, bodies still twitching from the rush.
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