Bending Eli - Cover

Bending Eli

Copyright© 2025 by Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica

Chapter 4: The Hardest Part of the Workout

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 4: The Hardest Part of the Workout - I'm Eli, an 18 year old university freshman. I join the school's gymnastics team in search of something new but find myself caught in a world of lust, dominance and kink that I never expected when I become entangled with my sexy Assistant Coach, Casper, all while hiding things from my equally sexy, straight, roommate, Mason.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma   Consensual   Gay   School   Sports   DomSub   MaleDom   Humiliation   Anal Sex   Analingus   Exhibitionism   First   Masturbation   Oral Sex  

After Mason’s comments, I couldn’t jerk off.

If I didn’t come to dinner right away, he’d know what I’d done and that’d be even more embarrassing than what had already happened so I threaded myself together and headed to the dining hall.

Dinner was loud. I don’t remember what I ate. Something beige and grilled, probably. Something I picked at while pretending to listen, while trying not to stare.

Mason had waved me over the second I walked in. No hesitation. Just a lazy grin and a gesture to the open seat across from him, as if nothing about earlier had been strange.

Now he was at ease again, sprawled at the head of a long table of guys from the team, damp hair curling around his ears, shoulders shining faintly under the cafeteria lights. He cracked a joke that made someone choke on their drink. Reached across someone’s tray like it was his own. The boy wore confidence like it was stitched into his skin.

It was the kind of scene I’d seen from across the room a hundred times, and never felt invited to. Now that I was in it, everything felt louder, sharper, too warm. My clothes clung to my back in a way that made me want to peel them off and run.

At one point, Mason caught my eye mid-chew and gave me a look. A smirk, almost. Familiar, maybe.

I thought about returning it. But then he turned back to the conversation, and I was left sitting there with my tray and a chest full of static.

When I woke up, it was still dark enough that I couldn’t see the ceiling. I lay there for a while, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant clank of pipes in the walls, waiting to feel like myself again.

Instead, all I could think about was Casper’s hand.

The way he’d grabbed me at the end of drills — firm, like a handshake. Like he needed to rearrange something. He’d said something about my stance, about loosening my hips, and then his hand had been between my legs, flat against the fabric of my singlet, right between my ass cheeks. Just for a second. A deliriously long second.

It had been clinical, probably. I’d seen him correct other guys before. But not like that. At least I didn’t think so. Not with that kind of contact?

At the time, I’d just nodded. Like it hadn’t knocked the breath out of me.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, I couldn’t stop thinking about it: how casually he’d touched me, how sure he’d been of my stillness. Like he knew I wouldn’t flinch. Or maybe that I would, and he wanted that.

By the time the sun started pushing pale light through the blinds, I was wide awake, still achy from yesterday’s practice and just unsettled enough to want out of my own skin. I got dressed without showering, pulled on my favourite light teal singlet, and headed back toward the gym before most of campus had even stirred.

I didn’t really have a plan. I wasn’t scheduled for anything, no classes until the afternoon, and nobody had asked me to be anywhere. But I couldn’t sit in my room. Every time I tried, I ended up just pacing or lying back down and staring at the ceiling again, like that would do something.

My phone was full of notifications, but I didn’t feel like checking it. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, or scrolling, or pretending to be interested in whatever distraction might take the edge off. I just wanted to move.

The gym felt like the only place that made sense. At least there, I could tell myself I was being productive. That I was doing something useful. That soreness meant progress and sweat meant control.

I kept my head down as I walked across campus. A couple guys I recognized passed me going the other direction, laughing about something that probably happened at dinner last night. One of them bumped my shoulder by accident and gave me a quick nod, but didn’t stop. I didn’t stop either.

By the time I pushed open the side door to the training complex, the sun had just cleared the roofline of the science building. It sent this watery kind of light through the windows, made everything inside look prettier than it actually was. The mats hadn’t even been cleaned yet. The air still held the ghost of yesterday’s sweat.

I stepped onto the floor and found a corner. Unfurled out one of the thinner mats and grabbed a foam roller. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet, and for now that was enough.

A few other guys had started to trickle in while I worked the foam roller up the side of my thigh. Most of them were upper-year guys, part of the travel team, stretching out in clumps or fiddling with their earbuds like they were too tired to commit to a real warm-up yet.

I kept my head down, but my eyes wandered. One guy peeled off his hoodie and his shirt came with it, sticking for a second before it tugged free. His abs flexed just enough to show off, though I don’t think he was doing it on purpose. Another one was lying flat on his stomach, doing some kind of back extension stretch, and his shorts had ridden down just enough to make me stare longer than I should have.

It wasn’t like I meant to look. It just happened.

Everywhere I turned, there were bodies. Casual, careless, confident. Sweaty or sleepy, limber or stiff. None of them knew how good they had it or how easy they made it look.

Ugh.

I closed my eyes for a second and focused on the motion, trying to chase some kind of rhythm. The roller pressed into my thigh, and I moved slowly over it, counting breaths, willing myself into focus. It was something to do. Something that felt regulated, even if my mind kept drifting, unbidden, in a state that was anything but controlled.

I hadn’t jerked off since before I got to campus. Practice, Mason’s constant, annoying presence, orientations and class schedules had made that impossible.

I rolled back down the length of my thigh, trying to refocus, when I heard the soft thud of a bag drop beside mine.

Casper.

I didn’t have to look to know it was him.

There was a certain way Casper moved. Calm, steady, like he was never in a rush but always exactly where he needed to be. His shoes barely made a sound on the mat, and yet the moment he arrived, the air around me felt different. More focused. More rigid.

I opened my eyes and glanced over just as he crouched beside me.

“You’re back at it early,” he said, not smiling but not unfriendly either.

“Didn’t sleep great.”

“Yeah?” He nodded like that made sense. “Yesterday was a tough one.”

I gave a vague hum and shifted slightly on the roller, trying not to look directly at him.

Casper didn’t say anything else at first. He just watched me. Not in a weird way, not even in a way that felt intentional. More like he was taking inventory. Scanning the way I moved, the angles of my legs, how much tension I was holding without realizing it.

He nodded toward my hips. “You’re holding weird again.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re tightening through your left side. Probably overcompensating. It’s throwing your alignment off.”

That didn’t sound like a big deal, but something about the way he said it made it feel like one. Like I’d done something wrong without knowing, and he was already filing it away somewhere important.

He tapped my shin lightly. “Roll on your back.”

I hesitated.

“I’ll help with your hips.”

I rolled onto my back and tried to act like it was no big deal. Just stretching. Just helping each other out.

Casper knelt down beside me and took my leg behind the knee, lifting it toward my chest. His grip was steady. He didn’t ask if I was good with it. He just did it, like this was something we always did. As though his touch wasn’t going to drive me crazy again. As if he hadn’t slipped his hand between my crack the other day...

“Relax this part,” he said, tapping the inside of my thigh. “You’re still clenching.”

“I’m not,” I said, almost too fast.

 
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