Walker Wild’s Fraternity Foursome

Walker Wild struts into the Beta Beta Pi house, all swagger and no subscribers, trying to play it cool. But his heart’s pounding like a fucking drum, giving him away. The guys—Apolo, Dylan, and Smith—are eyeballing his ripped abs and tight jeans, licking their chops like they’re about to dive into a buffet. They push him past pictures of their pious bullshit fundraisers straight to the basement.

As soon as the door slams shut, they’re on him like white on rice. Hands tear at his pants, yanking them down faster than a zipper in a hurricane. They pin him over the pool table, their laughter sharp enough to cut a bitch. One guy roughs up his hole with lube, sneering, “Bros before hoes, right, you little fuck?”

Walker’s gasp turns into a ragged whimper when the first cock crashes into his throat, no warning, no nada. They start a fucking conga line, taking turns stretching his ass with each brutal swap. Hours later, he’s doubled over the couch, one brother fucking his raw hole while another grinds against his face. “Take it, pledge,” they growl, slamming home like a freight train.

After what feels like an eternity, they empty into him—one load, two, three—until Walker’s fucking shaking like a leaf. His jockstrap, shredded beyond repair, hangs off one ankle like a fucking trophy. The president tosses him a bid card, sticky with their cum. “Same time Thursday. Wear the strap. And ditch the boxer briefs; you skinny fucker should learn to ride commando.”

Walker limps out before dawn, already hard again. Brotherhood tastes like sweat and pre-cum, and he’s fucking hooked.