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Hey guys, I am hosting a nad-boy pajama get together in two weeks 7/18. This is in San Diego. Feel free to reach out.   serious only, por favor

In the crisp, late-autumn air of a Saturday afternoon , the modest football pitch of West London Park buzzed with the energy of an amateur match between Albion City FC, decked out in their red and white kit, and Fulham Rovers, clad in all blue. The stands, sparsely populated with a mix of diehard locals and curious passersby, hummed with the occasional cheer or jeer, the scent of grass and sweat mingling with the faint aroma of hot pies from a nearby vendor, the grey London sky overhead casting a muted light over the scene, the pitch a stage for gritty competition, the city’s pulse a distant thrum. The game was a scrappy affair, the players’ enthusiasm outweighing their skill, but one figure stood out amidst the chaos: Ade Davis, a 24-year-old British-born Black lad, tearing aggressively up and down the pitch for Fulham Rovers. Ade was a striking presence, standing at 6’1” with a lean, muscular frame that spoke of years on the field, his perfect ebony skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat under the overcast sky. His face was handsome in a rugged way, with high cheekbones, a broad nose, and full lips often curled into a cocky smirk, his short black hair cropped close, his dark brown eyes flashing with intensity. His blue kit—tight jersey hugging his broad shoulders and chest, knee-high blue socks pulled taut over his calves, and black football boots scuffed from the turf—clung to his body, but it was his lower half that drew attention. The drum-tight blue shorts encased a very round, bubble butt, the fabric stretched to its limit, accentuating the firm, muscular curves, while a noticeable big bulge hinted at his physical prowess, the kit a second skin, the pitch a stage for his dominance, the city silent. Across the field, Iain Muir, a stern 54-year-old Scottish referee, watched with a critical eye. Standing at 5’10”, Iain was wiry but strong, his weathered face etched with lines from years under the sun, his graying brown hair thinning beneath his black referee cap, his piercing green eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, his salt-and-pepper stubble framing a tight-lipped expression. Dressed in the standard black referee kit—short-sleeved shirt, black shorts, and polished boots—his presence commanded respect, his Scottish burr thick as he barked orders, his aura one of unyielding authority, the pitch a stage for his control, the city a faint hum. Iain had noticed Ade early on, not just for his skill but for the way his shorts seemed to distract players and spectators alike, the younger man’s aggressive playstyle adding fuel to Iain’s growing irritation. The match reached a boiling point in the 65th minute when Ade, after a rough tackle, earned a yellow card. Iain blew his whistle sharply, the shrill sound cutting through the murmurs of the crowd, his green eyes locking onto Ade as the player swaggered over, his blue shorts swaying with each confident step, his black boots crunching the grass, the pitch a stage for their confrontation, the city silent. Ade’s dark brown eyes flashed with defiance, his London street slang rolling off his tongue as he leaned in, his voice loud and brash. “Oi, ref, what’s this bullshit yellow for? You’re blind, innit! Sort it out, man!” he barked, his full lips curling into a sneer, his ebony skin glistening, his big bulge prominent, the crowd’s gasps audible, the pitch a stage for his arrogance, the city a faint hum. Iain’s green eyes narrowed, his Scottish burr cutting through Ade’s tirade like a blade. “I’ve had enough of yer lip, lad. Attitude like that deserves a lesson,” he growled, his wiry hand snapping out to grip Ade’s wrist with surprising strength. Before the stunned player could react, Iain marched him toward a nearby bench, the wooden structure weathered and graffitied, the crowd falling into a shocked silence, the pitch a stage for the unthinkable, the city silent. Ade’s dark brown eyes widened, his cocky smirk fading, his muscular frame tensing as he realized Iain’s intent, his blue shorts swaying, his knee-high socks slipping slightly, his black boots scuffing the ground, the pitch a stage for his humiliation, the city a faint hum. “What the banned word , man?! You can’t do this—let go, you queer bastard!” Ade shouted, his London slang laced with homophobic venom, his full lips trembling, his ebony skin flushing with rage, his big bubble butt jiggling as Iain pulled him down across his knee, the referee’s black shorts pressing against Ade’s thigh, the crowd’s gasps turning to murmurs, the pitch a stage for his protest, the city silent. Iain’s green eyes glinted with stern resolve, his Scottish burr firm as he scolded, his wiry hand raised. “Yer attitude’s out of line, Davis, and those distracting shorts—pure provocation. Time ye learned some respect!” he barked, his calloused hand coming down with a sharp *CRACK* on Ade’s drum-tight blue shorts, the sound echoing across the pitch, the crowd frozen in disbelief, the city a faint hum. Ade gasped, his firm cheeks quivering under the impact, the tight fabric outlining the reddening skin, each orb bouncing with the force, his big bulge pressed into Iain’s lap, his knee-high blue socks stretching, his black boots scrabbling against the bench, his dark brown eyes streaming with shock, the pitch a stage for his struggle, the city silent. “ banned word off! Stop this banned word, you perv!” he roared, his London accent cracking, his muscular thighs kicking, veins popping, his abs contracting, his big bubble butt clenching futilely, the crowd’s murmurs growing louder, the pitch a stage for his defiance, the city a faint hum. Iain spanked again, *CRACK-CRACK-CRACK*, each hit harder, Ade’s arse jiggling, the blue shorts highlighting the raw flesh, the pain building, his cheeks bouncing with each strike, his big bulge swaying, the fabric soaked with sweat, his dark brown eyes filling with tears, the pitch echoing with his shouts, the city silent. “Take it, ye big-bottomed brat! Yer shorts are a disgrace—focus on the game, not yer swagger!” Iain scolded, his Scottish burr thick with authority, his green eyes glinting, his wiry frame trembling with strength, the pitch a stage, the city a faint hum. Ade’s struggles intensified, his black boots scuffing the bench, his knee-high socks slipping, his blue jersey riding up to reveal a sliver of his toned back, his ebony skin glistening with sweat, the crowd’s shock turning to a mix of gasps and uneasy laughter, the pitch a stage for his humiliation, the city silent. Iain’s calloused hand gripped the waistband of Ade’s tight shorts, yanking them down in one swift motion, exposing black briefs that clung to his smooth, round arse, the fabric stretched taut, red marks where the shorts had dug in, the pitch silent save for Ade’s ragged breaths, the city silent. Iain spanked Ade’s arse through the briefs, *CRACK-CRACK-CRACK*, the sound sharper, Ade groaning, his cheeks clenching, the cotton amplifying the sting, the pitch echoing with his cries, the crowd’s murmurs rising, the city a faint hum. “Please, man… stop… this ain’t right!” Ade bargained, his London accent faltering, his dark brown eyes pleading, his big bubble butt quivering, the pitch a stage for his submission, the city silent. Iain’s green eyes hardened, his Scottish burr unrelenting as he peeled the briefs down, exposing Ade’s big, shiny, smooth arse, the ebony skin now a searing red, the cheeks swollen, the round globes bouncing with each movement, his flaccid dick and heavy balls swaying beneath, the pitch a stage for his exposure, the city silent. Iain’s wiry hand came down with a vicious *CRACK*, spanking Ade’s bare arse, the sound reverberating, Ade wailing, his big buns bouncing like overripe fruit, the pain shattering his aggressive facade, his thick thighs jocking, his arse wiggling with each hit, his black boots scrabbling, the pitch a stage for his defeat, the city silent. “That’s it, lad—learn yer place! No more of this cocky nonsense!” Iain rasped, his calloused hand relentless, his green eyes glinting, his wiry frame trembling, the pitch a stage, the city a faint hum. Ade’s dark brown eyes streamed, his full lips trembling, his ebony skin flushed with shame, his abs spasming, his big bulge aching, his straight-lad bravado crumbling, the pitch echoing with his pleas, the London afternoon quiet, the city silent. “Alright, alright… I’m sorry, man! Please stop—I’ll behave, I swear!” he bargained, his London accent breaking, his muscular thighs quaking, his knee-high socks bunched, the pitch a stage for his apology, the city silent. As the spanking continued, *CRACK-CRACK-CRACK*, Ade’s resistance faded, his wails turning to sobs, his big bubble butt jiggling, his flaccid dick and balls swinging, his black boots stilled, the pitch a stage for his breakdown, the city a faint hum. “Please, sir… I’m sorry… I’ll be good… no more attitude!” he pleaded, his voice a broken whimper, his dark brown eyes tear-filled, his ebony skin marked with welts, the pitch echoing with his submission, the city silent. Iain, satisfied with the lesson, released Ade, the younger man collapsing onto the bench, his bare arse a throbbing, crimson mass, his blue shorts and briefs tangled at his ankles, his knee-high socks sagging, his black boots scuffed, his blue jersey soaked with sweat, his handsome face streaked with tears, his straight-lad pride shattered, the pitch a testament to his chastening, the London afternoon quiet, the city silent. Iain stood, adjusting his black shorts, his green eyes stern but calm, his Scottish burr firm as he spoke. “Off ye go, Davis—early shower, and yer sent off. Behave next time,” he ordered, his wiry frame unwavering, the pitch a stage for his authority, the city a faint hum. Ade, suitably chastened, stumbled to his feet, clutching his shorts as he shuffled bare-bottomed toward the locker room, the crowd’s stunned silence giving way to scattered applause and jeers, the pitch a stage for his exit, the London afternoon cool, the city’s hum a distant echo.