Page 18 of Built To Perform

No matter, really. For the next song they had me.

I could feel my hips rocking, side to side. Following the beat of the music on instinct alone. Like Carlos had planted some seed in me, had tuned my body in like an old radio: scrolled through the static until he’d found the right rhythm to give me muscle-memory.

I scanned the audience, or what I could see of them. Conscious of not looking frantic, of letting the churning nerves become obvious.

Ridiculous, really, to think I’d have ever missed him.

Jefferson sat almost dead center. Not in the front row, no, but visible of course. His scale reshaping gravity, flexing the branes of the universe so that you couldn’t not see him. Couldn’t not be impressed. Couldn’t not want to be the cause of a smile on that handsome face.

My hand was easing up, under my shirt, before I realized what was happening. Baring my abs in the process, as I tilted my hips and felt the hug of the tight shorts around my thighs. Knowing the heft of my junk, pushed forward and up by the jockstrap, would be unmistakable, too.

A dance for Jefferson, then, because I knew just what my big bro liked.

I could feel his gaze on me like something tangible, something with physical weight. Watching as I groped my own chest, my body swaying in time with the mindless thump of the dance music. When I turned - squatting down just enough to make my ass bulge against the white shorts - I knew he’d see the straps of the jock, visible through that clinging fabric.

It felt good to close my eyes, to flick through the memories of what we’d done together. Jefferson’s outsized hands on me in the shower, tracing the curves of my muscles. Ignoring my complaints, the self-criticism: my laundry list of room-for-improvement. My big bro never seemed disappointed, only ever encouraging. His touch as much worship as it was assessment, with the certainty that no part of was off-limits to him.

Hard, when I turned back around. The erection as inevitable as the sweat on my chest, soaking through the shirt. It clung to me as I peeled it off, a sodden tangle tossed away. Looking down, I saw how the colorful lights added new shadows to my abs and magnified my pecs. Deepened the grooves that I’d strained on the weights machines to carve out.

My cock throbbed in my fist as I stroked myself through the shorts.

Picturing Brayden and the video I’d watched of him. Trying to remember the trajectory of his performance, the details rendered vague by my own arousal at the time.

I glanced to the side. Saw the chair my teammate had dragged across to the spotlight.

Shoulders pressed back, hips pushed forward. My ass almost hanging off the wooden edge of the seat, and thighs splayed wide. An invitation, for eyes at the very least.

Not difficult to imagine Jefferson responding to that invitation, to picture him standing in front of me as I worked my shorts down. The thick, dripping length of his cock brushing my lips, as I worked the straining pouch of the jock around my needy inches. Pushing my fingers underneath me to brush at the soft, smooth skin behind my balls. Tempted, and equal parts shocked, by the sudden need to lift one leg; to grind a fingertip inside myself as these strangers watched.

I didn’t, though. Felt brazen enough staring down the narrowing taper of my chest as I pulled my cock free. Hard and already glistening, and the flood of pleasure as I succumbed to that first, slow stroke enough to leave me squirming.

Impossible not to think about the uncounted eyes observing me do it. The overwhelming sense of exposure leaving my head spinning, as I worked the palm of my hand across my drooling tip. Breathless, as I levered my prick upright - my thumb jammed at the straining base - to wag in some lewd, brazen demonstration of my desperate arousal.

I’d wondered if I could get this far, if the embarrassment of being watched would torpedo any hope of getting turned on. Pictured myself dancing, awkward and ungainly - a parody of the clear eroticism in Brayden’s video - until the audience bored and I was dismissed from the stage.

That fear felt laughable now. Forced instead to bite my lip, the distraction necessary to stop me from simply grabbing my dick and giving it the few strokes it felt like it’d take to explode.

I could understand the appeal to Brayden, could see how this strange whirl of feelings - exposure, and showmanship, and of being the object of so much lust - would dig its claws deep into the senior’s psyche. For him, and for all he took wrestling as seriously as our other teammates, each match was a performance. The muscles, and the singlet, and the grin, and the fat, unmistakable heft of his cock all part of that strutting, preening show, and if he could be forgiven for it then that was only because I knew how hard he worked to be that perfect package.

He may have been blessed with the inches between his legs, but every inch added to his chest, and his biceps, and his thighs came with a price calculated in hours of sweat.

No surprise then, that Brayden would find all this irresistible. Would feed off the projected desire, every hungry stare fueling his own narcissism. I just never expected it to have the same impact on me.

Jefferson’s gaze a part of it, no doubt, and the swirl of feelings in me that’d gone some nebulous way beyond hero-worship. But while their faces were unmemorable, I couldn’t claim the rest of the men watching me were unnoticed. Their interest raking across my bared skin, only where my brain told me I should feel self-conscious, embarrassed even, their attention apparently had a directly-wired shortcut to my dick.

And right now, my dick was telling me it wanted to challenge Brayden’s record of soaking the front row.

Gritting my teeth, my hips fucking my erection through my fist, I stared down at the fat, swollen tip. Fascinated by the way the colorful lights glinted off the sheen of sweat and precum glazing it, and at how my legs threatened to buckle each time I grazed the hyper-sensitive flesh with my thumb, and with the knowledge that - barring disaster, an earthquake, and maybe not even that - in moments a roomful of anonymous men was going to see me at my most intimate.

I looked up, simultaneously horrified and obsessed with the idea of it, as the orgasm thundered through me.

Messy, and haphazard, and enough to make my eyes widen with surprise. Like my body was a soda bottle, shaken and uncapped. The hiss of pleasure escaping between my teeth barely competing with the satisfied exhalation from the crowd, audible even over the stomping music.

When I managed to focus my bleary eyes on Jefferson, he was staring back at me with an eyebrow raised. Grinning, the same grin he’d flash when I did something in practice, some unexpected move, that impressed him.

Dazed, I lifted my hand to my lips. Tongue snaking across the smear of cum along my fingers, then startling as I realized I’d done that while so many were watching.

A hand, waving at the edge of the stage, caught my attention. Folded bills bristling from it.