Bending Eli
Copyright© 2025 by Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
Chapter 8: Training Balls
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 8: Training Balls - 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
The text came in at 11:46 p.m.
Casper: meet at the small gym by the science building at 5:30am before it normally opens. i wanna do some extra training with you.
No capitalization, no emoji, no explanation.
I stared at it for a full thirty seconds, thumb hovering. My heart was already pounding, even though I was lying in bed, lights off, screen low. Mason had been snoring softly for hours across the room. I didn’t even want to breathe too loud.
5:30 a.m. Before it opens. Extra training.
I had no idea what that meant. I wasn’t even sure if I was being singled out for something good or bad. But I didn’t care.
My stomach flipped, sharp and nervous and hot. I reread the message three more times. Then typed out a response:
Me: Ok. I’ll be there.
I didn’t sleep much after that.
The air outside was still dark and wet when I stepped out. My breath fogged faintly, the sky just beginning to hint at a faint light above the trees. The sidewalks were empty. The science building looked dead, like everything else.
But the side door to the small gym was propped open with a dumbbell.
Inside, it was quiet. Smaller than the main gym, no windows, just rows of mats, low lighting, and equipment lined up with military neatness. I stepped in slowly, letting the door shut behind me.
Casper was already there.
He was at the far end of the mat, stretching. Black tank top, low on the sides, sweatpants clinging loose to his hips. His hair was still a bit damp, probably from a quick rinse, and a faint sheen of sweat already coated his chest and shoulders. I watched the curve of his spine as he reached overhead, muscles rolling smooth under skin. It was silent except for the squeak of his bare feet against the mat and the soft pull of fabric as he shifted.
He didn’t look at me right away.
I swallowed, heart pounding as I set my bag down near the door.
Casper finally spoke without turning. “You’re on time.”
I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see that. “Yeah.”
“Good. Start warming up.”
That was it. No explanation. No nod. Just: start.
I rolled my shoulders out, still watching him for a second before moving to the edge of the mat. The floor felt cool under my palms as I dropped into a stretch. My limbs were stiff, but not from sleep. I hadn’t really slept at all.
Casper circled slowly as I stretched, eyes scanning, arms crossed. Every so often he’d stop and correct something. A hand to my shoulder. A press to the top of my thigh. One palm at the small of my back. Always firm, always calm. He was close, but not as close as he’d been before.
Then he had me transition into hip stretches. On my knees, back arched, chest lowered, thighs open. It wasn’t a position I’d ever done much in track.
Casper knelt beside me, adjusting my hips with both hands. His fingers pressed against the top of my glutes, guiding the angle. The sweat on his forearms caught the light, and the scent of it reached me—sharp, clean, masculine. Not cologne. Just him.
I inhaled too fast.
“Relax,” he said, adjusting my hips again. “You’re locking.”
“I’m trying,” I muttered, but my voice caught. My forehead was damp. My core was tight in a way that had nothing to do with the stretch.
Casper stood and walked around to the front.
“Switch,” he said, voice even. “Other side.”
I did, settling in, breath uneven. He crouched again, adjusting. This time, when he bent, I caught a clear view of the shape of his ass in his sweats: full, tight, outlined by sweat-soaked fabric.
My cock twitched in my shorts.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was no use. Every time he moved, every time he bent over, the pressure got worse. His voice, his scent, his body, my body just responded. My dick pressed uncomfortably against the front of my waistband.
Casper didn’t say a word.
The silence only made it worse. My whole body was warm now, soaked. His sweat had landed on my shoulder at least twice, and I didn’t wipe it off.
I thought he might say something. Joke. Scold. Anything.
But he just told me to move into the next drill.
Again. And again.
He ran me through an hour of conditioning. Planks, leg lifts, core holds, inverted positions that brought my face far too close to his ass. Sweat dripped off him steadily, spattering onto the mat. Onto me.
And I couldn’t hide it. The hard-on was constant. I stopped even trying to adjust. My shirt stuck to my chest, my hair damp against my forehead, my jaw clenched.
Casper never said a word.
When we finished, he checked his watch, nodded once, and said, “Same time tomorrow.”
I nodded, breath still catching. “Okay.”
He was already walking away.
The next morning, he was already stretching when I arrived. Same gym, same silence. But this time, he was wearing a singlet.
Not just any singlet. A dark, skin-tight one that clung to his body like it was trying to mold itself to him.
It took everything in me not to freeze in the doorway.
The straps framed his shoulders cleanly, leaving the muscles of his upper back completely bare. His ass looked obscene—round and flexed through the thin, taut fabric, the curve exaggerated every time he bent over to adjust a weight or roll his spine.
When he turned, I nearly swallowed my tongue.
The front of the singlet wasn’t padded. At all. It hugged him tight, leaving nothing to the imagination. His package was full, prominent, outlined clearly enough that my brain short-circuited trying to avoid staring while still taking it in.
He caught me looking once—maybe. His eyes flicked up from his wristwatch and landed on my face, unreadable.
“Warm up.”
His voice was as flat as ever, but it hit differently now. I peeled my hoodie off in a daze and stepped onto the mat, already hard.
The drills were tougher that day. Longer holds, deeper stretches, more bodyweight resistance. Casper kept me low to the ground for most of it, hips open, thighs shaking, shoulders down. Half the time, he stood or bent right in front of me. His ass filled my field of vision. Sweat glistened along the crease where his thigh met his glutes, soaking darker into the fabric.
At one point, during a set of slow body saws, he crouched down to correct my shoulders. His body lowered right in front of me, the stretch of the singlet taut between his legs.
I was panting, straining, but it wasn’t from the workout.
By the third session, I’d stopped pretending I wasn’t hard.
Every morning, the same thing happened: Casper in that goddamn singlet, moving with total calm while I sweated, shook, and tried not to lose it.
He never commented.
Not once.
Not when sweat poured down my back. Not when his own sweat dripped onto my arms and neck. Not when I started leaking into my shorts like a desperate idiot, cock aching from the friction, from the heat, from the way he looked when he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck mid-stretch.
He just kept adjusting my form.
“Lower. No, lower than that.” “Hold it.” “Don’t lock your knees.” “Open your hips.”
Always the same calm tone. Always the same impossible control.
And I kept obeying.
I showed up every morning, on time, eager, hoping to please.
But all he ever said at the end was: “Same time tomorrow.”
I’d walk out dizzy. Throbbing. Ruined.
I didn’t know how much longer I could take it.
It was the sixth session.
The gym felt even smaller that morning. Maybe it was the heat, or the way the lights flickered faintly in the corners, or just how soaked I already was thirty minutes in. My shirt stuck to me like a towel that had already been used. My legs ached, my core burned. And still, as always, I was hard.
Casper had me holding a deep squat against the wall, arms forward, back flat. My thighs trembled. My breath came in short bursts. He circled in front of me, barefoot on the mat, arms crossed.
He’d worn a singlet again.
This time it was grey. Lighter. The sweat had already begun soaking through, tracing darker lines down his chest, lower down his abs. His package was outlined so clearly now it didn’t feel like clothing. It felt like an invitation to stare. Like torment.
He stopped in front of me, tilted his head slightly.
“You’re still not improving.”
I blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”
“Your form,” he said. “It’s inconsistent. Your hips aren’t staying level. Your knees collapse inward when you’re tired. Your shoulders lock up.”
He stepped closer.
“I’ve pushed you. Spotted you. Adjusted you. Still not seeing what I want.”
I stared at the mat, trying to slow my breathing.
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