The Amajor University Vipers was the best college baseball team in the nation. Players would condition themselves and train for the opportunity literally as soon as they were old enough to hold a bat, but out of the thousands who tried out every season only a select few made it onto the Vipers.
It was widely acknowledged that the key driver of success was Coach Miller’s unorthodox coaching methods and player selection process. He was ruthlessly devoted to winning, even encouraging his players to slack on academics to get in extra practice and drills - much to the chagrin of the Faculty Senate - and personally interviewed every prospect multiple times to ensure they’d be a good fit for the team. No one knew Coach Miller’s secret sauce, but the Viper’s nearly-perfect record was proof that it worked.
Regardless of what criteria Miller was using, one thing all the young players happened to have in common was packing impressive bulges in their well fitting pants, so much so that the Vipers were sometimes derisively nicknamed the Amajor Big Balls by their jealous and woefully ill-equipped rivals.
Coach Miller demanded perfection. And discipline.
After practice one day, Coach Miller paced the locker room, his jaw tight. The air, thick with the scent of cheap body spray and teenage arrogance and the team’s inane prattle after what was a mediocre practice at best was starting to piss him off.
This was his ninth season coaching the Vipers and while the current squad was stacked with talent they sorely lacked discipline. In the old days, Miller thought, the team would have immediately come in from practice dissecting their performance, asking him for advice and even heading back out to the field for some extra work. But not this squad.
They were big, fast, and they knew it. If there were any doubt, the countless braggadocious Viper banners hanging around campus made their egos nearly as large as the prodigious bulges stuffed into their pants and jockstraps.
Even more annoying for Coach Miller was that it was obvious from the visible bulges and double-lumps in his teams pants none of them were wearing cups. He had been reminding them constantly, even spending big bucks to buy them state of the art carbon fiber extra large cups, but the cocky Devil-may-care college jocks didn’t seem to care.
Marcus, a lean twenty year old junior and one of his star players, was mindlessly chatting with his friend as they started to change out of their uniforms. As he did , he opened his locker, looked at the shiny new athletic cup and chuckled as he threw a towel over it.
That was it.
"Listen up," Coach Miller barked, his voice cutting through the chatter. "I've told you a dozen times. Safety is no joke. I want every single one of you wearing the new reinforced cups I handed out. No excuses."
A ripple of smirks passed through the team. Marcus leaned against his locker, arms crossed. His tight pants left nothing to the imagination, showcasing a package that was legendary even among a team of well-endowed athletes. The lumps of his two enormous testicles were obvious along with the tube shaped bulge of his fat cock, which was six inches totally soft.
"Come on, Coach," Marcus drawled, and a few of his teammates snickered. "These things are like wearing a brick. Can't move. Besides, nothing’s getting close enough to this to do any damage."
“I’ve taken some hits and I’m still standing. Balls of steel,” he chuckled.
He grabbed himself, not subtly, for emphasis. The rest of the team, all sporting similarly prominent bulges, nodded in agreement. They were invincible. A cup was for cowards and, well, for guys who weren't packing what they were.
Coach Miller’s eyes twitched. He’d seen this kind of confidence get literally shattered into gooey pieces more times than he cared to remember. Marcus looked a lot like a freshman Miller had seen who had accidentally walked in front of a pitching machine and ended up with chunks of his nuts oozing down his legs.
"This isn't a negotiation, Marcus. It's a direct order. I'm doing a cup check. Line up."
The groans were audible. They thought it was a joke. Afterall they had all basically admitted they weren’t wearing the stupid cups, as if the manly shaped lumps in their uniforms didn’t make it obvious. They obediently lined up shoulder to shoulder, a procession of muscular, sweaty young men still in their uniforms, their cocky smirks firmly in place. One by one, Coach Miller walked down the line looking them up and down, admiring their fit, powerful bodies that looked even better wrapped in Amajor University navy blue.
After going down the line, Coach Miller stood in front of Jake, a tall nineteen year old sophomore whose goose-egg sized balls would roll in his bag with each step. Now they were tightly constrained in his pants, creating a bulge Miller couldn’t help but target. Coach Miller grabbed him by the shoulders and for a moment Jake thought his beefy coach was actually going to knee him in the groin.
“Cup?” Coach barked.
Jake just grinned. "Don't need one, Coach."
Suddenly, Coach Miller let go of Jake’s shoulders and shot out a fist, not hard, but with undeniable pressure, right between Jake's massive thighs. He tapped the spot where the cup should have been. The thick fabric of Jake's shorts offered zero protection. Jake's eyes widened and he flinched back, a grunt of pain escaping his lips.
Jake looked at his coach stunned. Coach Miller was a powerfully built 40-something DILF who at six foot ten towered over everyone else on the team. His powerful biceps were straining the short sleeves of his polo and Jake was sure Coach could have really done some damage if he had wanted to. Typical Miller, Jake snickered, always going over the top with his ‘life lessons’.
"Looks like you do," Coach said, his voice uncharacteristically low.
He moved to the next player, a freshman named Sam, his huge fist connecting with Sam’s cotton-clad package in a blur. A quick, firm hit yet barely a fraction of what he could have unleashed. Sam's confident smirk twisted into a wince. He was packing serious equipment, and it was completely vulnerable to whatever lesson Coach Miller was going to dole out.
Coach Miller worked his way down the line, meting out the same painful lesson to each player. He got to Marcus, who was still trying to play it cool.
"My turn, Coach?" he sneered.
Despite his outward bravado, Marcus’ huge testicles were trying frantically to retract into his body, the convulsing sex organs were so large that their gyrations were almost visible through the fabric. Coach Miller didn't say a word. He just looked Marcus in the eye, then his hand moved with the speed and precision of a man who had done this a thousand times. Only this time he didn’t punch. He grabbed Marcus’ pants bulge and squeezed. Hard.
Very hard.
Not enough to cause damage, but enough to send a clear, sharp message. Marcus's face went pale as he felt his previously firm balls warping alarmingly like clay in Coach’s grip. The squeeze lasted only a moment but for Marcus it felt like a thousand years. His nuts were screaming, feeling like they had actually been crushed.
As Coach withdrew his hand, Marcus doubled over slightly, his hands flying to his crotch. The cocky facade crumbled in an instant, replaced by the wide-eyed panic of a frightened teen who suddenly realized Coach Miller was deadly serious.
"Every one of you is wearing a cup every practice, every game!," Coach Miller bellowed, his tone flat and final.
The stunned team, some of them still clutching their damaged nuts, nodded in understanding.
“You’re dismissed!”
The Coach barked, sending the young men into a scramble of activity. He’d never seen them get changed so fast. As they did, shirts were hastily unbuttoned to reveal toned, rippled chests, pants came down letting their massive sweaty packages dangle free and muscular arms and legs glistened before being covered up with their street clothes. They were so concentrated on getting out of there most of them didn’t bother to shower. Coach stood in front of the showers with his arms crossed impatiently as Marcus and a few others hurriedly took showers, admiring the heavy bags he had just punted.
Finally, the locker room had cleared out and Coach Miller went into his office and slammed the door.
For the entire next semester, no one violated the cup rule. There was the occasional rumbling about the cups being too tight or chaffing but otherwise there was total compliance. Marcus, now a senior and being scouted by major league teams, had become a bit of a celebrity on campus. He’d even won the notorious Big Man On Campus contest which only gave him more of a feeling of invincibility.
By Marcus’ final semester, Miller once again noticed the majority of the players were skipping their cups, convinced no doubt by the influence of Marcus’ ever growing ego. Marcus was on his way to big things - he’d been featured in a commercial, had already signed a pro league deal. He was literally becoming a household name; the Phenom from Amajor University. He just needed to finish out his college career strong to cement his legacy. Soon, he thought, he’d be out of the control of his overbearing, jealous coach. So of course now that his time on the team was coming to an end, why should he be bothered with Miller’s dumb rules.
Coach Miller had picked up on Marcus’ attitude and as he stood in his office watching Marcus in the locker room after a game his eyes were fixated on Marcus’ huge oblong nuts swinging several inches from his body. He decided it might be time for one more demonstration.
The next day Coach called an auxiliary practice. It seemed excessive, they were already practicing full tilt and were in the middle of another undefeated season, but it wasn’t particularly unusual for Coach Miller. Afterall he had once taken a group of underperforming players out to dinner in a town several miles away and after the meal ordered them all to jog back to the city, cutting the ones who didn’t make it in time, so an extra unscheduled practice was hardly out of character.
After practice, the exhausted team assembled in the locker room, all still wearing their uniforms and huddled around Coach for feedback.
Instead, Miller’s eyes narrowed. He thought he wasn’t focused on anyone in particular Marcus felt an uncomfortable pit in his stomach as he felt like Coach’s eyes were drilling through him - specifically his nuts.
Coach Miller gestured to an old boxing dummy he’d set up in the middle of the locker room a carton of eggs duct-taped to its groin. Some of the players chuckled. Marcus rolled his eyes.
"This is what's inside your jockstrap, gentlemen. A biological carton of eggs."
He picked up a heavy aluminum bat but none of the players recognized it as their standard equipment. Its surface was so shiny the bat almost seemed brand new. He swung it in a perfect, level arc. The impact wasn't a crack; it was a wet, explosive splat. Yolk and egg whites ran down the dummy's legs in a pathetic yellow river.
A few players shifted uncomfortably, as Coach Miller delivered a few more slams into the now mostly-destroyed carton, sending more egg mess flying and actually denting the crotch of the mannequin in the process but Marcus held his ground, his smirk unwavering. "Nice show, Coach. You got a point?"
Miller held the bat, still dripping with egg, against his side.
“My point, Marcus, is that it looks like some of you forgot last semester’s lesson about safety.”
Miller gestured with the end of the bat, which was still dripping with egg, to multiple players whose lumpy crotches made it evident that the only thing protecting their family jewels from a line drive was a few millimeters of tight cotton, a far cry from the expensive athletic cups the school had provided.
Miller smiled at Marcus.
“Cup check, line up!”
The teens obediently lined up shoulder to shoulder and Marcus rolled his eyes as he checked his watch. He had already pushed out his date night with the hottest girl on campus for this dumb practice and now Miller was making him even more late. He’d planned on fucking her brains out all night so had held off on jerking off for almost a week, making his nuts pulse and throb as their insides were overflowing with jock juice.
Like last time Miller walked down the line inspecting his ridiculously handsome squad of pure college athlete muscle and the boys figured they were in for another cup check with his fists, almost forgetting this time Miller was still carrying a bat.
Miller stopped in front of Ben, a new freshman on the team, and tapped the end of the heavy bat against his mounding crotch.
CLING
Ben sighed in relief, glad he hadn’t gone rogue and skipped his cup. Miller went down the line gently tapping the players wearing cups each time genuinely happy to hear the cling of metal on metal rather than the thud of metal on flesh.
That only left the players who were cupless and vulnerable. Marcus and the others smirked. They knew they were in for a tough hit, but they all remembered the restraint Miller had shown last time. Smashing the eggs explosively, starting with the guys wearing cups so that Marcus and the other defectors could literally hear the sound of their defeat was all part of Coach Miller’s theatrical coaching style.
Miller stood in front of Jake, now a junior whose dense oblong nuts and donkey-sized dick were now among the highest downloaded on OnlyFans. He stood nervously, bracing himself as he knew his money makers were about to be knocked around as part of Coach Miller’s lesson.
Coach Miller took up a perfect batter’s stance in front of Jake and lined up his aim. Jake couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like Coach Miller was wearing a tighter shirt than usual as if to emphasise his muscular torso and very thick biceps, all the muscles needed to deliver an insanely powerful blow, especially with such a heavy bat.
"Words and eggs are clearly too abstract for you. Let's try a more tactile lesson... This is what a bad-hop grounder feels like."
Jake’s fit body tensed up for the blow but it was hardly enough to prepare him for what happened. The sound and motion of the bat confirmed that it was considerably heavier than normal, almost like it had been specially made. Some players gasped. This definitely wasn’t the performative cup test from last time.
Despite the brutal power, Coach’s swing wasn’t a wild free for all. It was a controlled, vicious full frontal smack, a piston-like motion powered by his hips and shoulders. The flat of the bat struck Jake's pornographically large bulge with a deep, resonant thump that sent a rocket of vibration up Miller's arms.
Jake’s face was a mask of pure shock as time seemed to run in ultra slow motion. The substantial double mounds in his tight pants compressed flatter and flatter, his testicles and cock were mercilessly compressed against the immovable backstop of his pelvis even as the metal bat kept encroaching. Jake’s eyes rolled as his terminally flattened package deformed and warped around the bat desperately trying to dissipate the impact but they were just too big to hide and Miller’s hit had been too deadly accurate. What felt like hours of membrane crunching, corpus cavernosum crushing agony had transpired in a fraction of a second. The initial shock was still processing as a second equally powerful blow slammed into his boys.
Jake screamed as his anatomy betrayed him. Despite their massive size and sturdy appearance, Jake’s nuts couldn’t withstand the blow and burst. There was no audible pop, but Miller could feel it through the bat—a catastrophic structural failure had just happened in Jake’s pants. Jake’s eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth opened in a silent, agonized scream, and he collapsed. He didn't just fall; he folded, his knees giving out as his hands flew into his pants frantically feeling his now broken nuts through his lumpy bag and his nearly-destroyed cock which now sported a permanent dent toward the head of the shaft . A low, guttural moan escaped his lips as the disaster in his scrotum sent a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated agony through his nervous system.
Even though no one - other than Miller and Jake - realized Jake’s manhood had been turned into chunky gonad gravy, everyone was stunned into silence. Except Jake of course who was rolling and moaning on the floor.
“My nuts! My nuts!”
Miller didn't even look down. He took one step to his left, facing Sam. "This is a foul ball off the end of the bat."
Jake’s just being dramatic, this is just another dumb...
Sam had barely finished his thought before Miller sent the dense metal bat careening into his mounding bulge. The bat's end connected with the soft mound of Jake’s pants with a sickening, juicy crunch, like stepping on a ripe grapefruit. Sam’s left ball compressed instantly to a quarter inch - entirely too squashed for his billiard-ball sized testicle and it catastrophically burst into sludge. One minute there had been a firm collegiate nut and the next every structure had been violently dismantled, half of his manhood now nothing but goo.
Sam shrieked, a high, thin sound of utter despair. He dropped instantly, curling into a fetal ball, his body wracked with the terrifying, unbelievable pain of having his nut pasted so violently. Sam was crying like a bitch as his hands examined the damage. He screamed bloody murder as his fingers were effortlessly able to knead the shattered wreckage of his left testicle. There wasn’t anything left! His right nut had faired slightly better, still apparently whole, though Sam couldn’t have known that even that nut had been rendered effectively sterile, having cracked into two chunks that would have been floating freely had it not been held in place in his rapidly swelling bag. His dick on the other hand, which had been flopped lazily over both of his nuts, had been totally destroyed. The entire length of his flaccid cock had been compressed so flat so quickly that its internal structures ruptured, his head was permanently caved in, and his cock was now nothing but a tube of shapeless, barely functioning meat.
Marcus looked down in terror as Sam and Jake rolled in agony, convinced this was no longer a typical cup check. The other players looked on nervously as Coach Miller stepped in front of Marcus.
Marcus was openly pleading, no trace of his prior cockiness evident, begging Coach "No, no, please, Coach! Coach!”
"This is a fastball you didn't see coming," Miller said, his voice devoid of all emotion. He brought the bat back and swung it like he was trying to demolish a wall, clearly not caring about the consequences to Marcus’ future fathering abilities. The impact was the most brutal yet. It was a flat, heavy smack that was followed by a sickening crunch. Marcus’s eyes shot wide, his body going rigid for a horrifying second before all his muscles gave out at once.
WOOSH
As Marcus was collapsing the bat smashed into his bulge yet again, crushing his oversized nuts to a fraction of their girth. Miller could feel the vibration up his arm and smiled as Marcus landed with a heap. It felt like his testicles had imploded.
He didn't make a sound; he simply crumpled to the ground, his mouth agape, as the pain sent a shockwave of pain so severe it short-circuited his ability to even scream. Coach Miller stood over Marcus and callously kicked the handsome star player’s legs apart.
“And this is a sudden line drive!”
Marcus waved his hands “No!” in panic and tried to crawl away but Coach Miller took advantage of the stud’s stunned reaction time and sent the business end of the bat smashing down on Marcus’ mounding, defenseless package like he was driving a stake into the ground.
CRUNCH
Marcus’ testicles imploded. Literally. Marcus blacked out as both of his shattered nuts were turned into so much splattered beef and his cock ruptured. Instinctively Marcus’ nuts attempted to expel the massive load they had been building up, only it didn’t rocket out in fountains of cum like normal, it oozed out in thick slow globs as his pink jizz navigated his seriously damaged internal plumbing, most of it getting stuck in his gnarled, broken dick or flooding out into his sack through the millions of ruptured sperm tubes.
CRUNCH
If there had been any chance of rescuing Marcus’ family jewels, it was gone now. His testicles collapsed into absolute slop, leaving his sack a half inch thick. His dick was permanently flattened, the skin of his thick shaft rupturing open in several places allowing the chunked remains of his cock to squirt out like thick salsa.
“It’s fucking flat!”
A player gasped in disbelief as he pointed at the mushy visibly smaller bulge between Marcus’ thighs. That’s when the chilling realization that Coach Miller really wasn't kidding around set in.
Satisfied that his lesson had been effective he stood over the three twitching, sobbing players. He rested the bat on his shoulder, looking out at the rest of the team. They were no longer smirking. They were standing ramrod straight, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a new and permanent understanding. They looked like soldiers who had just witnessed a firing squad.
"Let me be perfectly clear," Miller said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. "That is what happens to unprotected balls on a baseball field. I don't care if you're a starter or a bench-warmer. I don't care if your daddy owns the stadium. If I suspect for one second you are not wearing a cup, you will be joining them on the ground. And then you will be off this team. Forever."
Shockingly the threat of being kicked off the prestigious team was more chilling to some of the players than the prospect of having their nuts demolished.
He pointed the bat at the writhing pile at his feet. "Now, are we absolutely, crystal-fucking clear?"
A chorus of terrified, fervent "Yes, Coach!" was his only answer.
"Good," Miller said, tossing the bat aside.
"Now get them some ice and call their parents. Tell them they had a little… equipment malfunction."
