THE MARATHON
“Twelve in twenty-four. Any method. No privacy. No shame. No dignity left by the end.”
They called it The Marathon, though no one would be running—at least not on their legs.
At exactly 9:00 a.m., the pledges of Delta Rho were ushered into the basement rec room, armed with nothing but water bottles, lube packets, and that particular brand of college-aged confidence that evaporates faster than cheap vodka.
The rules gleamed in blue dry-erase marker on the whiteboard:
* 12 orgasms in 24 hours.
* Every single climax must be witnessed and verified by a senior.
* Cum = counted. Anything else = just sad noises.
The rec room featured the standard fraternity basement decor: stained futons with mysterious histories, floor cushions that had witnessed generations of poor decisions, a mattress in the corner that probably deserved hazard pay, a couple of camping chairs stolen from tailgates, and an old flat-screen TV perpetually tuned to something inappropriate. The ventilation system was clearly designed by someone who had failed engineering. Someone had already lit a scented candle labeled “Fresh Linen,” which was fighting a losing battle against biological reality.
The seniors lounged against the wall with clipboards and energy drinks, looking like bored physicians at the world’s most questionable clinical trial.
Kyle, the chapter president with a smile that screamed “future defendant,” checked his watch and nodded.
“Begin. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
As it turned out, they were about to find out exactly what everyone was made of.
⸻
**Hours 1–2: Testosterone, Hubris, and the Easy Ones**
The first climax came at 9:04 a.m. on the dot.
Marcus, a D1 wrestler with forearms like Christmas hams, took one look at a paused frame of Baywatch and just… handled business. His cock barely had time to introduce itself to his hand before he barked, “Incoming!” and came into a plastic bag while a senior inspected the results with the clinical detachment of a TSA agent searching a suspicious backpack.
“Verified. One.”
The first few hours passed in a blur of couch-humping, sock-fucking, silent handjobs under blankets, and enough bravado to fill the university stadium.
Derrick—a business major whose personality could be summarized as protein shakes and Tinder—tried the ole “lotion and tissues in the corner” strategy three times in under two hours.
“Pace yourself,” warned a senior named Theo, not looking up from his phone.
“Bro, I jerk off like six times a day anyway,” Derrick replied, flexing a bicep nobody had asked to see.
By Hour Three, he was cradling his cock like it was a wounded baby bird, whispering, “I didn’t think it would hurt this soon.” His future children swam in limbo, wondering if they’d ever exist.
⸻
**Hours 4–8: The Room Gets Quiet**
By late afternoon, the atmosphere had shifted like tectonic plates.
Nobody was laughing anymore. Every groan, squelch, and sigh echoed with painful clarity. The air was thick with the warm, sour bouquet of sweat, sex, and drying lube—a fragrance no Bath & Body Works would ever bottle. Every inch of floor space was suspect territory. Pillows were flipped to their clean sides with the desperate hope that fraternity grime only manifested on one surface. Everyone had started carrying their own towels like survivors in a very specific apocalypse.
Ryan, a pledge with the unfortunate combination of high ambition and low stamina, was stuck at 5. His cock was tender, displaying a shade of pink usually reserved for salmon filets.
“You gotta edge,” said a senior named Dante, chewing beef jerky while watching YouTube compilations of people falling off treadmills. “Milk it for like thirty minutes. Want it. Earn it. This is Sparta, but for your dick.”
“But there are seven more,” Ryan said, his eyes hollow like a man who had glimpsed the void.
“Exactly.”
A freshman named Parker tried watching increasingly niche categories of porn, his browsing history becoming a psychological evaluation in real-time.
“Is… is that legal?” asked a concerned senior, peering at Parker’s phone.
“It’s Japanese,” Parker replied, as if that explained everything.
⸻
**Hour 9: A Visitor Arrives**
At 6:05 p.m., the basement door creaked open with the dramatic timing of a horror movie jump scare. Heads turned like prairie dogs sensing a predator.
“Yo,” came a voice. “Is this… still a thing?”
In walked a man in his mid-20s—bearded, confident, wearing gym shorts and a backward cap that screamed “I peaked in college and I’m fine with it.” He surveyed the sweaty, lube-slicked room like a general inspecting battle-weary troops.
“Name’s Grant. Class of ’19. I’m Logan’s older brother. Thought I’d drop by and see if the tradition lives on.”
One of the seniors tossed him a folding chair that had seen better days, possibly during the Clinton administration.
“Stick around. Give ’em tips.”
Grant sat down next to the clipboard crew and crossed his legs like a smug therapist at a group session he was enjoying too much.
“All right, who’s on six and stuck?”
Three hands shot up with the reluctance of students who didn’t do the reading.
“Try reverse-grip under-thigh while watching ASMR videos of people whispering in German,” he said with the confidence of a man sharing the nuclear launch codes. “The Germans have a way with words. Very efficient.”
Nobody knew whether he was joking. He wasn’t.
“Also,” he added, “freeze a banana, microwave it for twelve seconds, sleeve it in a sock. Boom. Instant reset button. Learned that during finals week, sophomore year.”
Logan buried his face in a pillow, hoping the stuffing might absorb him completely.
“One more thing,” Grant continued, now fully committed to his role as masturbation Yoda. “If your dick starts making dial-up internet noises, you’ve gone too far.”
⸻
**Hour 14: The Ones Who Break**
Two pledges quit around 11:00 p.m., their spirits broken like cheap IKEA furniture.
One whispered, “I think my dick has PTSD,” and walked out like a cowboy who’d been riding too long. Another tried to fake it with spit and sleight of hand—a David Copperfield of orgasms—but the senior noticed the dry tip and shook his head.
“Denied. You’re out. This isn’t theater class.”
No one cheered. No one gloated. They were too busy nursing sore bodies and raw nerves, their testosterone replaced by something closer to existential dread.
Marcus, the wrestler, hit eleven and couldn’t go on. His balls had shrunk like frightened turtles. His cock refused to rise, even after watching a looped video of his ex-girlfriend moaning his name—a video he swore he’d deleted but mysteriously still had access to.
He lay on the floor with a towel over his face, whispering, “Just leave me here. Tell my family I loved them.”
Javon, eyes glazed, was stroking mechanically while muttering baseball statistics like a man solving equations to stay sane.
“RBI… forty-two… slugging average… oh God.”
⸻
**Hour 22: The Final Barrier**
The remaining pledges were stuck on eleven—so close, and yet separated from the finish line by raw nerves and increasingly mutinous genitals.
Milo—skinny, quiet, with the kind of intelligence that made professors both love and fear him—had been pacing himself all night, alternating hydration, rest, and meditation techniques he’d learned from a YouTube channel called “Mind Over Matter.” His cock was sore but functional, like a reliable car with too many miles. He just… couldn’t get there anymore.
Logan, beside him on the mattress that had witnessed enough to qualify for therapy, looked equally wrecked. Every stroke now made his whole pelvis seize like a full-body cramp. It was like trying to coax water from a dried-out sponge.
“Can’t do it,” Logan groaned. “My dick hates me. We’re no longer on speaking terms.”
“Same,” Milo whispered. “Mine’s filing for emancipation.”
They lay in silence for a while. The room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of phones and the distant hope of morning. Everyone else was either asleep, finished, or pretending to be both.
Milo turned his head. “There’s no rule against help.”
Logan blinked. “You mean… like actually help?”
“We’ve watched each other jerk off for twenty hours, dude. At this point, it’s logistics. Like helping someone move furniture.”
Logan hesitated. “No eye contact.”
“Obviously.”
“Never speak of it again.”
“Like Fight Club. But sadder.”
They sat up. Milo reached first—gently, with the hesitant, clinical touch of someone performing first aid. Logan flinched, then exhaled.
A moment later, Logan returned the gesture.
Two pledges. Two hands. One last push.
They worked together in silence, steady and focused. Their thighs touched. Their breathing synced. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t romantic. It was desperate, necessary, deeply weird teamwork.
It didn’t take long. Their bodies were on a hair trigger.
Two stifled groans. Two warm finishes across towels. Two seniors leaned over, bleary-eyed.
“Double verified,” muttered Dante. “Thank God.”
⸻
**Hour 24: Survivors**
They sat in a circle. The ten who made it. Water bottles gripped like lifelines. Blankets draped like war medals. Sore hands. Sorer cocks. Eyes that had seen too much.
Someone coughed. Then Milo murmured:
“Well… I’m never jerking off again.”
Logan added: “…until tomorrow.”
Everyone laughed. It hurt to laugh.
In the center of the whiteboard, someone scrawled in permanent marker:
WELCOME TO DELTA RHO, YOU FILTHY CHAMPIONS.
As they shuffled up the stairs into the morning light, they knew they had earned something deeper than brotherhood or bragging rights:
The right to make next year’s pledges do it, too.
The circle of life continued—one orgasm at a time.
“Twelve in twenty-four. Any method. No privacy. No shame. No dignity left by the end.”
They called it The Marathon, though no one would be running—at least not on their legs.
At exactly 9:00 a.m., the pledges of Delta Rho were ushered into the basement rec room, armed with nothing but water bottles, lube packets, and that particular brand of college-aged confidence that evaporates faster than cheap vodka.
The rules gleamed in blue dry-erase marker on the whiteboard:
* 12 orgasms in 24 hours.
* Every single climax must be witnessed and verified by a senior.
* Cum = counted. Anything else = just sad noises.
The rec room featured the standard fraternity basement decor: stained futons with mysterious histories, floor cushions that had witnessed generations of poor decisions, a mattress in the corner that probably deserved hazard pay, a couple of camping chairs stolen from tailgates, and an old flat-screen TV perpetually tuned to something inappropriate. The ventilation system was clearly designed by someone who had failed engineering. Someone had already lit a scented candle labeled “Fresh Linen,” which was fighting a losing battle against biological reality.
The seniors lounged against the wall with clipboards and energy drinks, looking like bored physicians at the world’s most questionable clinical trial.
Kyle, the chapter president with a smile that screamed “future defendant,” checked his watch and nodded.
“Begin. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
As it turned out, they were about to find out exactly what everyone was made of.
⸻
**Hours 1–2: Testosterone, Hubris, and the Easy Ones**
The first climax came at 9:04 a.m. on the dot.
Marcus, a D1 wrestler with forearms like Christmas hams, took one look at a paused frame of Baywatch and just… handled business. His cock barely had time to introduce itself to his hand before he barked, “Incoming!” and came into a plastic bag while a senior inspected the results with the clinical detachment of a TSA agent searching a suspicious backpack.
“Verified. One.”
The first few hours passed in a blur of couch-humping, sock-fucking, silent handjobs under blankets, and enough bravado to fill the university stadium.
Derrick—a business major whose personality could be summarized as protein shakes and Tinder—tried the ole “lotion and tissues in the corner” strategy three times in under two hours.
“Pace yourself,” warned a senior named Theo, not looking up from his phone.
“Bro, I jerk off like six times a day anyway,” Derrick replied, flexing a bicep nobody had asked to see.
By Hour Three, he was cradling his cock like it was a wounded baby bird, whispering, “I didn’t think it would hurt this soon.” His future children swam in limbo, wondering if they’d ever exist.
⸻
**Hours 4–8: The Room Gets Quiet**
By late afternoon, the atmosphere had shifted like tectonic plates.
Nobody was laughing anymore. Every groan, squelch, and sigh echoed with painful clarity. The air was thick with the warm, sour bouquet of sweat, sex, and drying lube—a fragrance no Bath & Body Works would ever bottle. Every inch of floor space was suspect territory. Pillows were flipped to their clean sides with the desperate hope that fraternity grime only manifested on one surface. Everyone had started carrying their own towels like survivors in a very specific apocalypse.
Ryan, a pledge with the unfortunate combination of high ambition and low stamina, was stuck at 5. His cock was tender, displaying a shade of pink usually reserved for salmon filets.
“You gotta edge,” said a senior named Dante, chewing beef jerky while watching YouTube compilations of people falling off treadmills. “Milk it for like thirty minutes. Want it. Earn it. This is Sparta, but for your dick.”
“But there are seven more,” Ryan said, his eyes hollow like a man who had glimpsed the void.
“Exactly.”
A freshman named Parker tried watching increasingly niche categories of porn, his browsing history becoming a psychological evaluation in real-time.
“Is… is that legal?” asked a concerned senior, peering at Parker’s phone.
“It’s Japanese,” Parker replied, as if that explained everything.
⸻
**Hour 9: A Visitor Arrives**
At 6:05 p.m., the basement door creaked open with the dramatic timing of a horror movie jump scare. Heads turned like prairie dogs sensing a predator.
“Yo,” came a voice. “Is this… still a thing?”
In walked a man in his mid-20s—bearded, confident, wearing gym shorts and a backward cap that screamed “I peaked in college and I’m fine with it.” He surveyed the sweaty, lube-slicked room like a general inspecting battle-weary troops.
“Name’s Grant. Class of ’19. I’m Logan’s older brother. Thought I’d drop by and see if the tradition lives on.”
One of the seniors tossed him a folding chair that had seen better days, possibly during the Clinton administration.
“Stick around. Give ’em tips.”
Grant sat down next to the clipboard crew and crossed his legs like a smug therapist at a group session he was enjoying too much.
“All right, who’s on six and stuck?”
Three hands shot up with the reluctance of students who didn’t do the reading.
“Try reverse-grip under-thigh while watching ASMR videos of people whispering in German,” he said with the confidence of a man sharing the nuclear launch codes. “The Germans have a way with words. Very efficient.”
Nobody knew whether he was joking. He wasn’t.
“Also,” he added, “freeze a banana, microwave it for twelve seconds, sleeve it in a sock. Boom. Instant reset button. Learned that during finals week, sophomore year.”
Logan buried his face in a pillow, hoping the stuffing might absorb him completely.
“One more thing,” Grant continued, now fully committed to his role as masturbation Yoda. “If your dick starts making dial-up internet noises, you’ve gone too far.”
⸻
**Hour 14: The Ones Who Break**
Two pledges quit around 11:00 p.m., their spirits broken like cheap IKEA furniture.
One whispered, “I think my dick has PTSD,” and walked out like a cowboy who’d been riding too long. Another tried to fake it with spit and sleight of hand—a David Copperfield of orgasms—but the senior noticed the dry tip and shook his head.
“Denied. You’re out. This isn’t theater class.”
No one cheered. No one gloated. They were too busy nursing sore bodies and raw nerves, their testosterone replaced by something closer to existential dread.
Marcus, the wrestler, hit eleven and couldn’t go on. His balls had shrunk like frightened turtles. His cock refused to rise, even after watching a looped video of his ex-girlfriend moaning his name—a video he swore he’d deleted but mysteriously still had access to.
He lay on the floor with a towel over his face, whispering, “Just leave me here. Tell my family I loved them.”
Javon, eyes glazed, was stroking mechanically while muttering baseball statistics like a man solving equations to stay sane.
“RBI… forty-two… slugging average… oh God.”
⸻
**Hour 22: The Final Barrier**
The remaining pledges were stuck on eleven—so close, and yet separated from the finish line by raw nerves and increasingly mutinous genitals.
Milo—skinny, quiet, with the kind of intelligence that made professors both love and fear him—had been pacing himself all night, alternating hydration, rest, and meditation techniques he’d learned from a YouTube channel called “Mind Over Matter.” His cock was sore but functional, like a reliable car with too many miles. He just… couldn’t get there anymore.
Logan, beside him on the mattress that had witnessed enough to qualify for therapy, looked equally wrecked. Every stroke now made his whole pelvis seize like a full-body cramp. It was like trying to coax water from a dried-out sponge.
“Can’t do it,” Logan groaned. “My dick hates me. We’re no longer on speaking terms.”
“Same,” Milo whispered. “Mine’s filing for emancipation.”
They lay in silence for a while. The room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of phones and the distant hope of morning. Everyone else was either asleep, finished, or pretending to be both.
Milo turned his head. “There’s no rule against help.”
Logan blinked. “You mean… like actually help?”
“We’ve watched each other jerk off for twenty hours, dude. At this point, it’s logistics. Like helping someone move furniture.”
Logan hesitated. “No eye contact.”
“Obviously.”
“Never speak of it again.”
“Like Fight Club. But sadder.”
They sat up. Milo reached first—gently, with the hesitant, clinical touch of someone performing first aid. Logan flinched, then exhaled.
A moment later, Logan returned the gesture.
Two pledges. Two hands. One last push.
They worked together in silence, steady and focused. Their thighs touched. Their breathing synced. It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t romantic. It was desperate, necessary, deeply weird teamwork.
It didn’t take long. Their bodies were on a hair trigger.
Two stifled groans. Two warm finishes across towels. Two seniors leaned over, bleary-eyed.
“Double verified,” muttered Dante. “Thank God.”
⸻
**Hour 24: Survivors**
They sat in a circle. The ten who made it. Water bottles gripped like lifelines. Blankets draped like war medals. Sore hands. Sorer cocks. Eyes that had seen too much.
Someone coughed. Then Milo murmured:
“Well… I’m never jerking off again.”
Logan added: “…until tomorrow.”
Everyone laughed. It hurt to laugh.
In the center of the whiteboard, someone scrawled in permanent marker:
WELCOME TO DELTA RHO, YOU FILTHY CHAMPIONS.
As they shuffled up the stairs into the morning light, they knew they had earned something deeper than brotherhood or bragging rights:
The right to make next year’s pledges do it, too.
The circle of life continued—one orgasm at a time.
