Sticks, Tricks, and Dicks – Part 6

Everyone in this story is 18+.

The retreat center had slipped into a hushed slumber by 11 PM, the main hall's lights snuffed out long ago, leaving only the faint glow of distant cabin windows piercing the night. Freshers were probably sprawled in their cottages, wiped out from a day of brutal scrimmages that had pushed bodies to the limit—legs like jelly, lungs burning from the cold air, egos either inflated or deflated from the ice battles. Jake and I had ducked out early, our duffels packed with the scavenged booze stash—cans of cheap lager clinking softly against a pilfered bottle of Jack, the kind that burned going down but loosened everything up nice and quick.

The moon rode high, a fat silver orb casting eerie shadows through the pines, the frost-laced air nipping at our exposed necks as we hustled to our isolated cabin at the edge of the grounds. It was our little fortress, tucked away from the main cluster, the wooden walls promising zero interruptions, the door creaking like an old secret as we shoved inside.

The interior hit us with that cozy, musty vibe—cedar planks underfoot, a rickety table shoved against one wall, and the two narrow bunks stacked like a kid's fort. A single lamp cast a warm, amber glow, chasing away the chill, the scent of pine mingling with the faint tang of our gear from earlier. "This spot's gold," I said, dropping the duffel with a thud, pulling out the beers and cracking one open, the hiss sharp in the quiet. The cold can sweated in my palm, foam bubbling up as I took a long pull, the bitter hop bite hitting my tongue.

Jake flopped onto the bottom bunk, the mattress groaning under his frame, kicking his shoes off with a lazy fling. "Yeah, man, no one's crashing this. Luka better haul ass—don't wanna drink solo." He snagged a can from me, popping the tab with a crack, chugging half in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing, a dribble escaping the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with his sleeve, grinning that grin of his, eyes already brightening from the buzz.

Right on cue, the door nudged open, Luka slipping in like a shadow, his blond curls disheveled from the wind, a backpack slung loose over one shoulder. "Miss me, studs?" he said, kicking it shut with his heel, green eyes sweeping over us with that hungry glint, like he was sizing up a feast. He dumped the bag on the table, unzipping it to reveal a portable speaker that thumped to life with a low bass line, a playlist of gritty hip-hop kicking in, the beats pulsing through the room like a heartbeat.

"Hell yeah," I said, tossing him a beer mid-air. He caught it smooth, popping the tab with his thumb, foam fizzing up as he swigged deep, his throat working. "Sit your ass down—let's get this rolling."

Luka hopped up on the table's edge, legs swinging, his tight shorts riding up to show the curve of his thighs. "Rolling how? You two got plans, or we just winging it?"

"Winging it sounds boring," Jake said, leaning back against the headboard, his beer balanced on his knee. "How 'bout we make it fun—strip poker? Loser sheds, winner calls the shots. Deal me in if you're not chicken."

Luka's laugh barked out, sharp and filthy, his eyes narrowing with challenge. "Oh, I'm game. Let's see if you bluff as hard as you check on the ice, farm boy." He slid off the table, grabbing a deck from his bag—beat-up cards with bent corners—and shuffled them with quick flicks, the snap echoing. "Five-card draw. Ante up with a swig."

We cleared the table, pulling up rickety chairs that scraped the floor, the lamp casting long shadows over our hands. First deal—Luka's fingers flew, cards sliding across the wood. I peeked my hand—a pair of jacks, decent start. Bets went around with swigs, beer cans emptying fast, the buzz settling in warm and loose. Jake folded early, grinning as he lost his hoodie, peeling it off to reveal his broad chest, a faint trail of hair dipping below his waistband. "Your lucky night," he said to Luka, flexing a bicep in mock show.

"Keep dreaming," Luka shot back, winning with a flush, his eyes raking Jake. "Shirt off, hockey boy—fair's fair."

I stood, tugging my tee over my head, the fabric whispering off, my lean chest bare, abs flexing in the light. Luka whistled low. "Ripped and ready. My deal."

Second round, cards fanned out, tension building with each bet—more swigs, the Jack making its debut in shots that burned like fire down our throats. I won with three of a kind, smirking as Luka lost his tee, standing to strip it slow, his smooth, toned torso gleaming, nipples pebbled from the chill. "Like what you see?" he teased, turning to show his back, muscles rippling.

"Fuck yeah," Jake said, his voice thicker now, the beer hitting him. "You skaters built different."

Third hand—Jake's deal, cards slapping down. Bets escalated, the whiskey loosening tongues. "If I win, you two kiss," Luka said, eyes gleaming as he raised with a chug.

"You're on," I laughed, but my pulse kicked up. Luka won again, a full house, and Jake lost his shorts, standing in boxers that hugged his bulge. "Kiss it is," Luka commanded, leaning back with a smirk.

Jake and I locked eyes, a spark jumping, and I leaned in, lips brushing his—soft at first, then deeper, tongues tangling briefly, the taste of whiskey and beer mingling, his stubble rough against my chin. We pulled back, breathing heavy, Luka clapping. "Hot as fuck. Keep going."

Fourth round—my deal, cards flying. The whiskey burned hotter, the room warming with our heat. Luka lost his shorts, standing in a jockstrap that cupped his package tight, the strap framing his ass cheeks like an invitation. "Your move, studs," he said, twirling slow, the fabric straining.

"Damn," Jake breathed, eyes glued. "You're packing too."

Fifth hand—tension thick, bets wild with shots and dares. I lost my shorts, standing in briefs, my rod tenting obvious. "Like the view?" I said, flexing, the fabric stretching.

"Sixth," Luka said, dealing fast. Jake won, pointing at Luka. "Jock off—show us everything."

Luka stood, hooking thumbs in the straps, sliding it down slow, his cock springing free—six inches, smooth and curved, balls tight and shaved. "Your turn," he said, eyes on us. "All in."

We dropped our last layers—my meat bobbing heavy, veiny and flushed, Jake's own thickness curving slight, balls full and fuzzy. The room pulsed with the music, our naked bodies close, cocks twitching in the open air, the game done but the real fun starting.

"Enough cards," Luka said, stepping between us, hands landing on our chests, fingers trailing down. "Let's get to the good stuff. Who wants my lips first?"

"Both," Jake said, bold now, the whiskey fueling him. "Double duty—see if you can handle two at once, skater."

Luka dropped to his knees, hands wrapping our lengths, stroking with a twist that made me groan. "Greedy pricks," he laughed, leaning in to take me first—lips parting wide, tongue lapping the underside, sucking deep till his nose hit my base, a velvet grip that had my hips twitching. He switched to Jake, swallowing him whole, throat bulging, Jake's groan ripping out. "Fuck, that's good," Jake said, hand in Luka's curls.

Luka alternated, sloppy and eager—sucking me with a swirl, then Jake with a deep throat, spit dripping, his hands pumping the other. "You taste so good," he gasped between pulls, eyes watering but hungry. "Gonna make you burst."

"Keep going," I said, thrusting shallow into his mouth, the heat building, my sack tightening.

Luka wiped his chin, standing with a wobble, his own rod leaking. "Now bend me over—tag team me. One after the other, stuff me full."

We flipped him over the table, ass presented, cheeks parted, his hole pink and flushed. Jake lubed first, fingers rimming the edge, dipping in, Luka moaning "Probe deeper, open me wide." Jake plunged two fingers, scissoring, Luka's ring yielding, a whine escaping as he rocked back. "Primed for you," Luka said, and Jake aligned, easing in, his cock vanishing gradual, Luka's channel swallowing him, a sharp inhale tearing out as he seated fully. "So stuffed," Luka panted, grinding back. Jake started pumping, hips meeting ass with a smack, the table rocking, Luka's pleas mixing with the beats.

I fisted my length, the view a filthy feast—Jake's legs tensing with each surge, Luka's spine curving, his prick swinging like a pendulum below. "Drill him deeper," I said, and Jake ramped up, hammering in, Luka's whimpers turning to demands. "Swap," Luka gasped, and Jake withdrew with a slippery glide, his pole coated. I took his place, lubing hasty, pressing into the loosened warmth, the slide effortless from the prep, a snug embrace that had me biting my lip. "Still like a glove," I grunted, driving deep, Luka's innards rippling, his breaths syncing with my rhythm.

"Cum inside," Luka begged, and Jake returned, thrusting feral, his face contorted. "Gonna paint your insides," he growled, hips faltering, and he did—dense surges pumping into Luka's depths, the excess oozing out as he lingered buried. "Your go," Jake panted, pulling free, and I dove in, Jake's messy semen slickening my path, the messy churn a wicked thrill. Plowing through his mess—feels like warm silk wrapping me, I thought, the glide addictive, my plunges unyielding, Luka's passage clutching desperate. "Spill for us," I ordered, reaching under to pump Luka's prick, and he erupted—jets splattering the table, his body seizing, the spasm milking me harder.

Jake leaned in, surprising us, taking Luka's spurting tool into his mouth, swallowing the bursts, the sight pushing me to the brink. I buried to the brim, unleashing in waves, my fluid blending with Jake's, stuffing Luka full, the overflow trickling down his legs in creamy rivers.

We slumped in a sweaty tangle, breaths ragged, Luka wedged between us, a content smirk on his face. "Best bash yet," he said, and we laughed, the night still pulsing with promise.