Tyler "Brick" Mason owned Westfield College like a goddamn dictator. At 19, the freshman linebacker—six-foot-two, a jacked-up beast with shoulders that'd choke a doorway—strutted the campus quad in a navy hoodie stretched tight over pecs that could crush your face. His fists, scarred from high school fights, swung in fingerless gloves, ready to wreck. March 22, 2025, was a cold, shitty day—gray sky pissing drizzle, air knifing your throat.
Behind the gym, asphalt slick from rain, Tyler had Nate cornered. The scrawny 18-year-old freshman, all slouch and dark curls, drowned in a gray sweatshirt, clutching a beat-up notebook like it was his balls. "Empty your damn pockets, runt," Tyler growled, breath steaming, jeans hugging thighs thick as tree trunks.
Nate's sneakers scuffed, eyes darting like a trapped rat. Then—*bam*—he shoved Tyler, palms slamming his chest. Tyler stumbled, boots slipping, crashing ass-first to the wet ground. His wrists smashed down—*crunch*—bones snapping like cheap sticks.
"SHIT!" Tyler roared, rolling onto his back, hands flopping useless. Pain blazed up his arms like a blowtorch, face twisting, sweat burning his eyes. Nate bolted, sneakers slapping pavement, leaving Tyler sprawled like roadkill.
A coach sprinted over, whistle screaming. "Stay down, Mason!" he barked, waving for help. Paramedics hauled Tyler's big frame onto a stretcher, hoodie sleeves dangling, every jolt spiking fire through his busted wrists. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" he bellowed as they wheeled him to the ambulance, his reign bleeding out on the cold metal floor.
---
St. Jude's ER was a blur of harsh lights and bleach stink that fucked your nose raw. Tyler slumped in a wheelchair, wrists swollen purple, locked in chunky white casts that turned his hands into useless stumps. They'd shredded his hoodie and jeans, stuffed him in a flimsy blue gown—ties loose, flapping open, flashing hairy thighs and heavy balls swinging low under a thick cock. He felt like a caged dumbass, humiliated, hating it.
Dr. Lauren Baxter walked in—Nate's mom, a doctor who looked like she could star in porn but acted like she'd rather gut him. Navy scrub pants hugged her hips, white coat tight on curves, chestnut hair in a high ponytail, green eyes cold as ice, hating him for bullying her kid. A stethoscope dangled between big tits, nipples faintly poking her scrub top.
She clicked a pen with coral-painted nails, flipping his chart. "Tyler Mason, you fucked yourself good," she said, voice sharp, no warmth. "Bilateral wrist fractures—six weeks of me cleaning your sorry, bullying ass."
"I ain't no kid," he snapped, gown crinkling, casts heavy in his lap. "Don't need you touching my dick." His cheeks burned, cock twitching at the thought, shaming him. He hated needing her, hated her seeing him broken.
"Cry me a river, you little prick," she shot back, stepping closer, ponytail swinging. "Your hands are fucked, and I'm stuck scrubbing your filthy hide. Deal with it, bully." Her roasting cut deep, and he wanted to flip her off—if his wrists weren't toast.
---
Two days later, Tyler was a mess—bed a sweaty shithole, gown sticking to his broad chest, hair plastered to his forehead, stinking like a jockstrap after a triple practice. The casts pinned his arms, heavy as fuck, and he couldn't do jack—couldn't scratch his balls, couldn't jerk off, couldn't piss without help. Baths were hell, Lauren's hands scrubbing him like a dirty dog, his cock half-hard every time she got close, shame choking him.
"Get the fuck out," he'd mutter when she rolled in with her cart, scrub top tight, bending over the basin, tits shifting. "I don't need your damn hands."
"Shut your trap, Mason," she'd fire back, peeling his gown off, nails grazing his chest hair, sharp enough to sting. "You're a walking landfill. My job's keeping you from rotting like the garbage you are." She sponged his pecs, abs, quick and clinical, ignoring his curses. "What's the matter, big bad bully? Scared I'll laugh at your pathetic cock?"
"Fuck you," he'd growl, face red, cock twitching under the sheet, begging her to leave. He hated her hands, hated her roasting, hated his dick's betrayal.
---
Four days in, Tyler hit bottom. The room reeked of sweat and musk, gown crusty, casts trapping him like a prisoner. His cock was a traitor, throbbing every time he thought of jerking off, balls screaming, heavy and tight. He needed to nut—bad—but his hands were fucked, casts scraping uselessly when he tried to grip himself.
That night, he cracked. Alone, lights dim, he humped the bed like a desperate fuck, cock rubbing the sheets, casts grinding his wrists until pain stabbed like knives. "Fuck—fuck—come on," he grunted, tears burning his eyes as he failed, cock hard but no release, just agony. He didn't hear the door—didn't see Lauren slip in, cart squeaking, until her shadow hit the bed.
"Christ, Tyler," she said, voice low, catching him mid-hump, tears streaking his face, gown rucked up, balls exposed. He froze, cock throbbing, shame drowning him. "Get out!" he choked, voice cracking, turning his head, praying she'd vanish.
She didn't. Her eyes narrowed, professional, seeing the pain, the kid who'd tormented her son now a wreck. "You're suffering," she said, stepping closer, scrub pants rustling. "I'm a doctor, Mason. I fix pain, even for a bully like you."
"Fuck your fix," he muttered, but his cock bobbed, precum leaking, humiliating him. She wheeled the cart over, face hard. "Gotta clean you up, you stinking shit," she said, peeling his gown off, nails scraping his chest, making him hiss.
She sponged his pecs, abs, quick and firm, water dripping cold. Then she reached his groin, and her hand froze, eyes widening at his cock—thick, veiny, bigger than she'd expected, head purple and slick, throbbing hard. "Jesus," she muttered, shocked, sponge hovering, then swiping his balls, heavy and fuzzy, water trickling, making them tighten.
"Leave my dick alone," he growled, face burning, cock jumping as the sponge grazed it, making him groan. "Fuck—doc—don't."
"Quit whining," she snapped, sponge circling his shaft, clinical but thorough, water dripping down his cock, making it twitch. "Your dick's a fucking petri dish, Mason. I'm not letting you fester because you're too proud." Her roasting was sharp, hating him, but her hands were steady, ignoring his precum pooling on his stomach.
She paused, seeing his cock throb, his hips twitch, pain in his eyes. "Shit," she muttered, dropping the sponge—*plop*—and grabbing medical lotion, squirting it into her palm, the wet squelch loud. "You're in agony, and it's my job, even if you're a piece of shit," she said, voice cold. "Just this once—don't think I like it."
"What the—doc, no—" he started, but she grabbed his cock—gloved hand, slick with lotion, fingers wrapping tight around his shaft, thick and pulsing, bigger than her husband's sad prick, she noted, clinical, not horny. "Fuck!" he gasped, hips bucking, balls slapping her wrist as she stroked slow, thumb grazing the head, precum mixing with lotion, slick and sloppy.
"Shut up, bully," she said, roasting him, hand sliding down, squeezing the base, then up, twisting at the tip, lotion squelching. "Goddamn, Mason, this cock's bigger than your ego," she sneered, pumping steady, fingers digging into his shaft, her other hand steadying his thigh, no warmth, just duty.
"Shit—doc—fuckin' stop—" he groaned, lying, hips humping her fist, bed creaking, casts thudding. Her hand was relentless—slick, firm, stroking long and slow, then fast, wrist snapping, *schlick-schlick-schlick*, precum oozing down his cock, dripping onto his balls, pooling on the sheet.
"Look at you, big tough guy, humping my hand like a pathetic mutt," she laughed, cold and mean, leaning closer, scrub top tight, breath sharp. "Bet you thought you'd never need Nate's mom to jerk your sorry dick, huh?"
"Fuck you," he panted, face red, cock swelling, balls pulling tight as she sped up, hand flying, lotion squelching, fingers squeezing the head until he hissed, "Shit—doc—gonna—"
"Blow your load, you whining prick," she snapped, thumb digging into his slit, stroking hard, fast, clinical, her other hand gripping his thigh. "Get it over with—I'm not your fucking whore."
"FUCK!" he roared, hips jerking, cock erupting—thick ropes of cum blasting out, splattering her glove, her wrist, arcing onto her scrub sleeve, white and sticky, dripping down his shaft, pooling on his stomach. His balls pulsed, emptying, cum streaking the bed as he panted, chest heaving, cock twitching in her grip, leaking the last drops.
"Christ, Mason, you're a goddamn cum geyser," she said, no humor, wiping her glove on a tissue, tossing it with a scowl. "Feel better, you little shit? Don't expect me to do your laundry next."
"Fuck... off," he gasped, humiliated, cock softening, shame drowning him. She rolled out, ponytail swinging, leaving him wrecked, mind spinning, balls empty but burning.
---
That was the only handjob—Lauren stayed ice-cold after, bathing him nightly with brisk efficiency, sponge swiping his cock quick for hygiene, ignoring his hard-ons. "Keep your dick down, Mason," she'd snap when he groaned, "I'm not your personal cum-rag." Her roasting was relentless, hating him for Nate, her hands a cruel tease.
Days dragged—casts pinning him, gown a sweat-soaked rag, room stinking of musk. He tried humping the bed again, casts scraping raw, cock rubbing uselessly, pain killing his buzz. "Fuckin' bitch," he muttered, hating her grip on him, even if she was just doing her job.
Nate showed up a week later, shuffling in—gray hoodie zipped to his chin, cargo pants sagging, curls bouncing. "What the fuck you doing here?" Tyler snapped, gown riding up, casts twitching.