The Straight Gym Bro Brad Has A Spicy Twitter

"The Straight Gym Bro Brad Has A Spicy Twitter"

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Recap: Cody’s first night staying with the gym bro Brad is anything but normal. Between tight boxer-briefs, shirtless strolls, and late-night Instagram stalking, he’s barely surviving. The next morning, while cleaning, Cody finds a red jockstrap under his straight friend Brad’s bed… and gets caught holding his jockstrap in his hand. Brad just grins and makes a flirty joke, like none of it’s weird at all.

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I was holding Brad’s jockstrap in my hand when he walked in, shaking a box of Pop-Tarts in the air like it was the most normal thing ever. “Yo,” he said casually, stepping through the doorway. “They had the strawberry kind this time. Score.”

He stopped. His eyes dropped to what I was holding.

His brows lifted. “Uh, Cody… what are you doing with that?”

I blinked, heart slamming against my ribs. “I was just cleaning,” I said way too fast.

Brad stepped into the room slowly, one hand still holding the box of PopTarts, the other resting on his hip just above the waistband of his stupidly low, stupidly tight black briefs. He looked like he belonged in a porn ad. Or a nightmare. Or both.

“So…” he said, his smirk creeping in, “are you gonna fold them and put them away, or keep sniffing them like you were?”

I nearly dropped the thing. “I wasn’t.”

“You were definitely sniffing them,” he said, grinning now. “Not judging. Just observing.”

My face burned. I dropped the jock on the edge of the dresser like it was radioactive. “Shut up, Brad.”

Brad laughed, walked past me, and tossed the Pop-Tarts down. “Relax, man. It’s just fabric.”

Fabric my dick was still hard over.

He stretched his arms overhead, abs stretching tight, briefs hugging everything, then turned toward the door. “I wore that for a thing, by the way,” he said, totally offhand.

“A… thing?”

But he was already gone.

I tried to survive the rest of the day. Failed miserably.

The image of that red jockstrap burned in my skull. I kept zoning out. Kept remembering. The smell. (Yes, I might have taken a whiff.) The way it felt. The way Brad looked when he caught me. My dick was on edge all day, half-hard for hours.

By midnight, I was wrecked. Couldn’t sleep. Could barely think.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that stupid red jockstrap dangling from my hand. I saw Brad’s smirk when he caught me with it. I heard his voice in my head, asking if I was gonna fold them or keep sniffing them. He had said it like a joke, like he didn’t care but the way he looked at me… I don’t know. There was something behind it. Something cocky. Or curious. Or worse –knowing.

I shifted under the blanket again. My dick had been hard all night. I kept rolling onto my side, then onto my back, trying to find a position where I wasn’t hard as hell. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. My mind was fucked.

So I did the worst thing imaginable. I picked up my phone.

At first, it was innocent. I opened Instagram. I scrolled through some stories. A few gym memes, a couple shirtless thirst traps. Whatever. But of course, once again, Brad’s posts came up. One after the other. Like the algorithm wanted me to suffer. Him sweaty in the gym. Him shirtless in the mirror with his phone covering his face. Him flexing, his bulge visible in tiny shorts with the caption “Leg day wrecked me.”

And then I saw it.

A photo I hadn’t noticed before, deep down his profile, probably months old. Brad in gray sweatpants, no shirt, biting his lip in front of the bathroom mirror. No underwear. The bulge was unmistakable. A dick print like it was practically waving hello.

My thumb slipped. I liked it. Instant panic. I unliked it right away. But I’d clicked it. Even if it was gone now, the damage was done. My heart pounded. I sat up in bed, staring at the screen. I checked Brad’s DM to see if he was still online. Nothing there. Look’s like his “Active Now” status was turned off. But what if he got a notification? What if he was still online?

And then, as I was scrolling through the comments, I saw a reply from a follower that made my stomach twist.

“Drop this one on the spicy Twitter”
“@BradFitXXX never misses”
“Red jock content when???”

Spicy. Twitter. I stared at the handle: BradFitXXX
It couldn’t be real. There was no way. I quickly opened Twitter and searched his handle.

There it was. I clicked it. It was real. His header photo was a grainy mirror pic; Brad shirtless, his hand shoved way down his briefs, tongue out. The profile pic was even hotter; him biting the waistband of that red jockstrap dangling from his mouth. The jockstrap. The same I saw earlier while cleaning. My blood went cold and hot all at once.

It was past 1:30 a.m. now. The whole room was quiet. Brad’s bed creaked faintly across the room. I could tell he’d turned over, maybe getting comfortable, probably asleep. Meanwhile, I was wide-eyed and scrolling through his spicy Twitter like it held answers to every question I never meant to ask.

There were clips. Short, silent ones. Him grinding slowly against the mattress, shirtless and leaking pre. Him flexing, biting his lip, stroking beneath the covers, the motion obvious but never fully shown.

Then there was the red jockstrap.

A pinned video of him actually wearing it. Brad, standing in front of the mirror, camera in one hand, the jock barely holding his dick in place as he tugged at the waistband. The caption read: “You asked for it. Here’s the jock. Don’t cum in 30 seconds.”

I watched it three times. Okay, maybe four.

My heart was hammering. My cock throbbed under the blanket. My whole body was buzzing, tense, starved. I followed the account. I didn’t even think twice. Just hit follow from my alt account and scrolled again, wanting more, needing more.

By 2:00 a.m., I was sweating. By 2;15, I was still hard, still scrolling, still edging without even touching myself. By the time I finally drifted off maybe 2:30, I was half-delirious, balls aching, and so far past horny it felt like insanity.

And I had no idea Brad knew exactly what I’d done.

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I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen. My head was pounding from being completely wrecked by whatever fever dream I’d had last night. My body felt heavy, drained. The sheets across Brad’s bed were rumpled but empty. His was already up.

I sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off me. My morning wood was unapologetically real, and my phone was still on my chest from where it had dropped at some point during my late night Twitter spiral. I didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed. My body had one setting this morning, and it was used.

I made my way into the kitchen, hoodie thrown over yesterday’s shirt, trying not to look like I’d spent the whole night thinking about Brad’s cock straining inside a red jockstrap.

Brad stood barefoot at the stove, shirtless of course, cooking eggs with one hand and holding a mug of coffee in the other. His back muscles shifted as he flipped the pan. He looked over his shoulder when he heard me. “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

I scratched the back of my neck and gave a half-laugh. “Barely slept.”

He smirked and nodded, like he already knew. “Yeah, I figured. Heard you tossing and turning all night.”

My stomach clenched. I opened the fridge and grabbed the orange juice, trying to stay casual. “It was just hot. Room felt like a furnace.”

There was a long pause behind me.

Then Brad said, “Yeah, I bet. Scrolling through my secret Twitter with a hand down your underwear all night’ll do that.”

I froze.

The juice bottle was still in my hand, unopened. My heart jumped to my throat. I turned slowly and saw him watching me from over his coffee cup, eyes glinting with way too much satisfaction.

I opened my mouth. “Bro… what are you talking about?”

Brad raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “You accidentally liked that old thirst trap of mine on Insta. You know, the one with the sweatpants and no underwear. Two minutes later, I get a new Twitter follower.“ One I’ve never seen before. Same username you used back when we used to game all the time: FrostSignal.

“I didn’t mean to…..” I started, voice thin, caught somewhere between panic and arousal.

Brad cut me off with a shrug, casual as hell, like none of this was surprising to him. “I’m not mad,” he said. “Just surprised you held out this long.”

I blinked. “Held out for what?”

He turned off the stove, slid eggs onto a plate like it was any normal morning, and leaned back against the counter with his coffee. The mug sat easy in one hand. The other rested on the curve of his hip, right above the waistband of those goddamn boxer-briefs. His abs glinted in the sunlight pouring through the window. His smirk was borderline devastating.

“My content,” he said simply. “You clearly wanted it.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I didn’t know what to say. My brain scrambled for a joke, a deflection, something to grab onto but I was spinning. Hard.

Brad tilted his head, watching me. Then, without rushing, he stepped forward. Just a few feet. Not enough to touch, but close enough that I could smell the hint of his body wash still clinging to his skin. “I’m straight, by the way,” he added casually, like we were talking about the weather. “But you’d be surprised how many dudes would follow you on Twitter if you post the right kind of pics.”

My stomach flipped.

“Some even pay me for custom shots,” he went on, taking another sip. “That jockstrap you found yesterday when you were supposedly “cleaning” was sent to me by some guy named ‘Steven69X.’ Said red’s his favorite color. Paid extra for pics of me working out in it.”

He chuckled, totally unbothered.

“Whatever it takes,” he said, stretching his arms overhead, every muscle flexing under his skin. “I enjoy the attention. Gotta keep the audience happy, right?”

Then he looked me over like he was deciding something, then tilted his head just a little, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. “I’ve been thinking…” he said, voice light, casual, like he was asking about the weather. “It’s probably time I post some new content soon.”

He set his coffee down, stretched his arms behind his head, every muscle tightening in the morning light like it knew I was watching.

“Steven sent me a more revealing jockstrap last week,” Brad said with a smirk, his voice dripping with amusement. “Bright blue, tight as hell. He wants me to do some squats in it….real sweaty locker room vibes.” He chuckled. “Dudes are insane, but hey… if they’re paying and I enjoy the attention he gives me.”

I swallowed, still not sure if this was a joke or a test or… something else.

Then Brad stepped forward, slow and deliberate, stopping just a few feet from where I stood frozen.

“Wanna help me shoot?” he asked, like it was no big deal at all.

But it was.

And we both knew it.

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Published 2 months ago

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