The Naked Basketball Game

 I had an amusing dream last night where I was part of a naked basketball team that was running around playing basketball naked for women in the audience and I thought that that would make for a pretty good story, even though I am not an athlete and couldn't play sports to save my life. This is mostly a CFNM story and a naked in public story but it does involve a little bit of female nudity here to balance things out so I hope you will enjoy.

The Naked Basketball Game
"You seeing this shit?" Daryl wiped sweat from his brow, grinning as the overhead scoreboard flickered to 82-79. The buzzer's shrill cry drowned beneath the roar of the crowd.
    Tyler, still panting from the final sprint down the court, hooked an arm around Daryl’s neck. "Captain’s curse my ass," he laughed, knuckling Daryl’s scalp hard enough to sting. "Three straight wins. You’re carrying us like a damn backpack."
    Daryl shrugged him off, but the warmth in his chest spread anyway. The gym smelled like rubber and old sweat, the floor sticky under his sneakers where someone had spilled Gatorade earlier. He could still feel the ghost of the ball in his palms—that last-second shot, arcing clean through the net while the clock bled zeroes.
    Around him, the team was a mess of slapping hands and half-shouted jokes. Someone tossed a water bottle across the huddle, and it exploded against Marcus’s shoulder, icy droplets hitting Daryl’s cheek. He didn’t flinch. His pulse hadn’t slowed yet, adrenaline humming under his skin like a second heartbeat. Coach would chew them out later for the mess. Right now, none of that mattered.
    Then he saw her—Christie weaving through the dispersing crowd, her dark curls bouncing with every quick step. She was grinning, her cheeks flushed pink from screaming. Daryl barely had time to brace before she launched herself at him, her arms locking around his neck, her lips pressing against his sweaty temple. “You absolute lunatic,” she laughed into his ear, her breath warm and familiar. “That last shot? I think I blacked out.”
    He caught her around the waist, spinning her once just to hear her yelp. “Blacked out?” He smirked. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.” She swatted his chest, still laughing, and for a minute, everything else blurred. The noise, the lingering burn in his muscles—none of it compared to the way she looked at him, bright-eyed and proud.
    They traded playful jabs about the game, Christie teasing him for showboating in the final quarter, Daryl defending himself with exaggerated outrage. It was easy, effortless. Then, as she pulled away to head back to the stands, she tossed over her shoulder, “Can’t wait to see you in the naked basketball game, by the way. That’s gonna be wild.” Her wink was wicked before she disappeared into the crowd.
    Daryl blinked. The words registered a second too late. “Wait—what?” But she was already gone. He turned to Tyler, who was chugging from a bottle of electrolyte drink. “The hell is ‘naked basketball’?”
    Tyler choked, spitting half of it onto the floor. Around them, the team went abruptly quiet. Marcus coughed into his fist. Someone muttered, “Oh shit.”
    Daryl’s stomach dropped. “Someone better start talking.”
    Tyler wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. “Right. So. Uh.” He cleared his throat. “It’s kind of a… legacy thing? Every year, the men’s team plays an… exhibition game. No uniforms. No *anything*. Just skin and sweat and”—he gestured vaguely—“*spirit*.”
    Marcus snorted. “Spirit. Yeah. That’s one word for it.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Dude, the bleachers are *packed*. Like, every sorority on campus shows up. Last year, some girls brought binoculars.”
    Daryl’s ears burned. He could already picture Christie in the front row, her knees bumping against the court as she leaned forward, *watching*. His throat went dry. “And we just… *do* this?”
    “Tradition, man,” Tyler said, clapping him on the shoulder like that explained everything.
    Daryl swallowed hard. He’d grown up playing basketball in baggy shorts and sleeveless jerseys, not— He glanced down at himself, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of fabric clinging to his skin. Christie had seen him shirtless, sure, but *this*? Full-frontal under stadium lights? His pulse kicked up again, but this time, it wasn’t adrenaline.
    Someone wolf-whistled behind him. “Better start practicing your free throws, Rook. No hiding *nothin’* when you’re buck naked.”
    Daryl shot him a glare, but his mind was racing. Christie’s teasing grin flashed in his head. She’d *known*. Of course she’d known. And worse—she’d be there. Watching. Judging. *Enjoying*. His stomach twisted. They’d been together six months, and yeah, they’d fooled around, but he’d always kept his boxers on. The one time she’d hooked her fingers under the waistband, he’d panicked and pretended to sneeze.
    “When’s the game?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
    Tyler grinned. “Saturday.”
    Three days.
    Daryl exhaled through his nose. “Cool.”
    Cool.
    *Fuck*.
    Daryl's fingers twitched against his water bottle as he passed through the quad, the late afternoon sun painting the brick walkways gold. He'd taken the long way back to his dorm—anything to delay facing Christie—but now he regretted it. Two girls lounged on a bench near the old oak tree, their voices carrying just enough to hook into his skull like fishhooks.
    "—honestly, Bryce's *ass* alone was worth the ticket," one said around a bite of her sandwich. Her friend giggled, nodding fervently.
    Daryl slowed his steps without meaning to, his pulse hammering.
    "Right? But I heard this year's team has way more upperclassmen," the other sighed, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "Last year was fun, but imagine seeing *Daryl Bishop* go full monty under those lights." She fanned herself dramatically, and her friend nearly choked. "I mean, have you *seen* how he fills out those practice shorts? It's basically false advertising at this point."
    Daryl jerked forward like he'd been shoved, heat flooding his face. His sneaker caught on uneven pavement, and he barely saved himself from eating concrete. Behind him, the girls burst into laughter. He didn't look back.
    His dorm room door hit the wall with a bang when he threw it open. Tyler, sprawled on his bed scrolling through his phone, barely glanced up. "You look like you just witnessed a murder."
    Daryl kicked his shoes off hard enough that one smacked the window. "We need to cancel this shit."
    Tyler snorted. "Not happening. Alumni donations *tripled* after last year's game. Coach would bench us for the season if we bailed." He finally looked up, smirk widening at whatever expression Daryl was making. "Dude, relax. It's not like they're gonna—"
    "Christie's gonna be there," Daryl blurted. He paced the narrow strip of floor between their beds, hands raking through his hair. "She's *excited* about it. Like, grinning-like-a-lunatic excited. What the hell am I supposed to do?"
    Tyler's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Uh. Play basketball?"
    Daryl shot him a glare.
    "Okay, okay." Tyler sat up, rubbing his chin like he was considering deep philosophical shit instead of Daryl's impending humiliation. "Look, just... don't think about it. Pretend it's a normal game."
    Daryl groaned, flopping onto his mattress. "Easy for you to say. You've got nothing to be embarrassed about."
    Tyler's grin turned sharp. "Oh, I *absolutely* do. But see, here's the thing—" He leaned in. "Nobody's looking at *me* when you're on the court."
    Daryl threw a pillow at his face.
    Three minutes later, he was hunched over his laptop in the dark, fingers hammering the keys like they'd personally offended him. *Naked basketball university tradition*—the search bar autocompleted before he finished typing. His stomach lurched.
    The first image loaded: last year's team mid-game, bathed in stadium lights, skin gleaming with sweat. The crowd was a sea of screaming sorority sisters, arms outstretched, phones raised. Someone had thrown a bra onto the court. Daryl zoomed in—was that *Marcus* grinning like an idiot while dribbling past half-court, absolutely *flopping* in the breeze? His ears burned. He clicked to the next photo. Worse. A close-up of Tyler mid-layup, muscles flexed, some girl in the front row biting her lip like she was at a damn Chippendales show. The caption read *MVP of More Than Just the Game 😏*.
    Daryl swallowed hard. The comments section was a warzone. *Tell me why I’m buying season tickets NOW*, one read. Another: *If they lose, do they have to do a lap of shame?* He scrolled faster. Video footage from two years ago—the squeak of sneakers drowned out by wolf whistles as the team lined up for free throws. The camera panned to the stands, where rows of girls were leaning so far forward they might as well have been on the court. One held a sign: *SPIN THE BALL, WIN A DATE!*
    He slammed the laptop shut. His reflection in the black screen looked vaguely ill.
    Tyler’s voice cut through the silence. “Told you it’s a big deal.”
    Daryl spun around. Tyler was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing the smug expression of someone who’d just won a bet. “Big deal?” Daryl’s voice cracked. “It’s a fucking *spectacle*.”
    “And?” Tyler shrugged. “We’re athletes. We perform.”
    Daryl opened his mouth, but the protest died in his throat. Because—shit—Tyler wasn’t wrong. Basketball *was* performance. The cheering crowds, the highlight reels, the way girls swooned over jersey numbers. This was just… uncensored. Raw. No hiding behind team colors or sponsor logos. Just skin and skill and the terrifying vulnerability of being *seen*.
    His phone buzzed. Christie’s name lit up the screen: *Soooooo… you Googled it yet?* Followed by a winking emoji.
    Daryl groaned, thumping his forehead against the desk.
    Tyler chuckled. “Dude. You’re fucked.”
    Understatement of the century.
    Daryl dragged his laptop closer, fingers digging into the keys as he typed *university naked basketball origin story*, bracing for some frat-boy lore about drunken bets and lost dares. Instead, the first link spat him into a digitized campus newspaper archive from 1987—*Student Body Votes for "Authentic Greek Tradition Revival."* His stomach flipped at the black-and-white photo of grinning athletes holding a banner that read *Olympic Spirit Lives Here!*, their uniforms suspiciously absent.
    The article explained in painfully earnest academia-speak how a classics professor had lectured on ancient Greek athletics—competing nude as a celebration of the human form—and some enterprising women's studies majors had circulated a petition demanding "equal visual appreciation." By the time administration noticed, over 70% of the female student body had signed. The athletic department, smelling donation money, approved it as a "historical tribute." Attendance quadrupled overnight.
    Daryl groaned, rubbing his temples. So this wasn't just hazing—it was institutionalized. Christie probably owned the petition clipboard. He could picture her looping her 'i's with a smirk, adding *Daryl Bishop's Ass Appreciation Club* in the margins.
    Tyler's shadow fell across the desk. "Told you it's legit." He tossed a protein bar at Daryl's head. "Eat something before you pass out from moral crisis."
    Daryl caught it on reflex. His phone lit up again—Coach's gruff *Team meeting 7AM. No excuses.*—followed immediately by Christie's *Bring your A-game Saturday 😉*. The emoji winked at him like a conspiracy.
    He stared at the protein bar wrapper, the bold *PERFORMANCE FUEL* text blurring. Captain. Leader. The guy who carried the team when the clock was bleeding zeroes. He couldn't bail now, even if every instinct screamed to fake mono.
    Tyler clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Relax. Worst case? You give 'em a show they'll never forget."
    Daryl crumpled the wrapper in his fist. That was *exactly* what he was afraid of.
    The next morning, he kept his hood up despite the mild spring weather, shoulders hunched as he cut through campus. Everywhere he looked, women grinned at him—some shy, some bold, all knowing. A group of freshman girls giggled into their lattes when he passed the café, their whispers sharp as needles. One waved enthusiastically. Daryl nodded stiffly, picking up his pace.
    Then he spotted Nikki by the bike racks, her buzzed hair glinting in the sunlight as she wrestled with a jammed lock. Relief washed over him. They'd shared a sociology class last semester, bonding over mutual disdain for group projects. She was the only person on campus who'd never once looked at him like he was meat—mostly because she'd loudly announced her preference for "literally anyone without a Y chromosome" on day one.
    "Hey," he said, crouching beside her. "Need help?"
    Nikki startled, then smirked. "Oh, it’s *the* Daryl Bishop." She gestured grandly at the rusted lock. "By all means, flex those championship muscles."
    He snorted, yanking the lock free with one sharp twist. The moment it clicked open, Nikki whistled. "Damn. Maybe I *should* reconsider men."
    Daryl froze. "Wait—"
    She burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder. "Relax, dude. My girlfriend would murder me." Then her grin turned sly. "So. Naked basketball, huh?"
    His cheeks burned. "You—you know about that?"
    "Uh, *everyone* knows." Nikki rolled her eyes. "My group chat’s been blowing up with bets on who’ll 'accidentally' flash the crowd first." She studied him, her amusement fading. "Wait. You’re actually freaked out?"
    Daryl kicked at a pebble. "Is it that obvious?"
    "Kind of?" Nikki tilted her head. "I mean, you’re built like a damn romance novel cover. I figured you’d be all..." She flexed her arms mockingly.
    "That’s the thing," he muttered. "People think because I play sports, I’m fine being... *displayed*." He gestured vaguely at himself. "But Christie’s gonna be there. It’s different when it’s someone you—" He cut himself off.
    Nikki whistled low. "Oof. Yeah, that’s... wild." She paused, then frowned. "Though, honestly? Kinda bullshit there’s no female version. Sororities would *dominate* this."
    Daryl blinked. "Wait, you’d actually *want* that?"
    "Uh, *duh*." Nikki grinned. "Equal opportunity objectification, baby. Besides, imagine the look on your face if Christie was the one sweating under stadium lights." She wiggled her eyebrows.
    Daryl’s stomach lurched at the mental image—Christie laughing, her skin glistening, the crowd *watching*—and suddenly, violently, he understood. "Shit," he said hoarsely. "That’s... not okay."
    Nikki patted his arm. "Welcome to the club, champ." Then she shrugged. "But hey, if anyone gives you shit? Tell 'em you’re protesting the gender imbalance." She winked. "Might even get you out of it."
    Daryl exhaled sharply. Right. Because *that* wouldn’t make him look like a hypocrite after years of basking in applause. The weight of Nikki’s gaze settled on him, knowing. He groaned, rubbing his face. "I’m screwed either way, huh?"
    Nikki laughed, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. "Yep. But hey—at least you’ll be *famously* screwed." She sauntered off, calling over her shoulder, "Send me front-row pics!"
    Daryl flipped her off half-heartedly, but his mind was already racing. Christie’s teasing grin flashed in his head again, brighter this time. She wouldn’t *actually* want him humiliated... would she? His phone buzzed—another text from Tyler: *Dude. Emergency practice. Coach says no one’s running drills naked until they can hit a free throw sober.*
    Daryl stared at the message. Then down at his hands—still trembling slightly—and the ghost of Nikki’s smirk hanging in the air. The irony tasted bitter. All his life, he’d trained to be seen. Just... not like *this*.
The gym smelled sharper today—bleach and fresh polish layered over old sweat—as if Coach had scrubbed it raw in anticipation. Daryl hesitated at the threshold, watching through the glass as Marcus nailed a three-pointer, whooping while Tyler wolf-whistled. Normal. Routine. Except every dribble echoed differently now, every squeak of sneakers laced with the unspoken *they’ll see everything*. He swallowed hard, pushing inside.
    The moment the door hissed shut behind him, Marcus turned, grinning wide. “Look alive, rookie! We’re practicing *presentation*.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, palming the ball with exaggerated flair—then immediately fumbled it. The laughter that followed was too loud, too forced.
    Daryl caught Tyler’s eye across the court. His friend’s smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for Daryl to spot the nervous twitch in his jaw. “You good?” Daryl muttered as they lined up for drills.
    Tyler exhaled sharply. “Define ‘good.’” He bounced the ball hard, avoiding eye contact. “Listen, I talk big, but—fuck, man. Last year, some girl yelled *measurements* during my free throw.” His throat worked. “I airballed so hard Coach benched me for a quarter.”
    Behind them, Marcus cleared his throat. “Yeah, well. Alumni donations buy new bleachers, so.” He shrugged, but his knuckles whitened around the ball. “School spirit, right?”
    Coach’s whistle cut through the awkward silence. “Enough gossip, ladies! Defense drills—*now*!”
    They scattered, but the tension lingered—thick enough to choke on. Daryl watched Marcus fake a stumble, laughing too loudly at his own joke, while Tyler’s usual trash-talk came out wooden. Only Bryce seemed unfazed, stretching lazily like he hadn’t heard the *ass* comments Daryl had eavesdropped on yesterday.
    Then Bryce caught Daryl staring and winked. “Relax, Bishop. Half those girls can’t tell a zone defense from a sandwich.” He spun the ball on one finger. “They’re just here for the *view*.”
    The word hit like a slap. Daryl’s stomach knotted. Because that was the crux of it—wasn’t it? The applause, the chants, the way Christie’s eyes darkened when he wiped sweat from his brow—he’d *loved* being watched. Just... on his terms.
    Coach blew the whistle again. “Bishop! You guarding or *posing*?”
    Daryl jolted into motion, but his mind was elsewhere—tangled in the irony of craving attention until it stripped him bare.
    The post-practice showers were quieter than usual, the usual towel-snapping bravado replaced by a tense silence. Daryl kept his back to the wall, water hitting his shoulders like needles. He’d never thought twice about showering with the team before—just part of the grind—but now every drop felt like an accusation. His gaze flicked to Marcus, who was scrubbing his hair aggressively, and Tyler, hunched under the spray like he could shrink into himself. Even Bryce’s usual loudmouthed commentary had dried up.
    He found Nikki at the campus coffee cart later, her Doc Martens propped on an empty chair. "So," she said, swirling her iced coffee, "still freaking out?"
    Daryl slumped into the seat across from her. "I showered with the team for years," he muttered. "Now I’m—I don’t know. Hyperaware." He mimed covering himself, then winced at how pathetic it looked.
    Nikki snorted. "Welcome to puberty, part two." She took a deliberate sip, studying him. "Funny how it hits different when *you’re* the one being eyeballed like a menu item."
    Daryl opened his mouth—then froze. She wasn’t wrong. He thought of Christie’s teasing wink, the girls by the café, the way Tyler had flinched at the word *measurements*.
    Nikki smirked. "See? Told you." She tapped her temple. "Female gaze is brutal. At least y’all get cheered for existing."
    Daryl exhaled hard. "Shit."
    "Yeah." Nikki stretched, her shirt riding up to reveal a strip of tattooed skin. "Fun fact? Gym class showers made me realize I liked girls." At his startled look, she grinned. "Not *like that*. Just—nudity’s no big deal when you stop treating bodies like secrets."
    Daryl stared at his hands—still calloused from last night’s game, still shaking. "So how do I—"
    "Own it or bail," Nikki interrupted. "But half-assing it?" She shook her head. "That’s how you end up a meme."
    Daryl’s phone buzzed. Christie: *Dreamt you scored 40 points. All shirtless. Coincidence?*
    His stomach flipped. Maybe Nikki was right. Maybe the only way out was through—even if the thought made his pulse stutter like a bad engine.
    Nikki clinked her cup against his untouched coffee. "Bottoms up, champ."
    Daryl swallowed hard. "Literally."
    She burst out laughing.
    He didn’t.
    Nikki found it deliciously ironic—the campus golden boy, all broad shoulders and effortless swagger, now squirming at the thought of baring skin. She’d spent her whole life hearing how women should be demure, cover up, shrink themselves into palatability—yet here she was, the one who’d streaked through the library during finals week, laughing while security chased her in nothing but neon body paint. Meanwhile, Daryl Bishop—whose biceps had their own fan club—was sweating bullets over a little full-frontal basketball. 
    “Tell me something,” Nikki said, swirling her straw in her drink. “You ever walk around shirtless at the beach?”
    Daryl frowned. “Yeah, but—”
    “But nothing.” She leaned forward, elbow thumping against the table. “You’ve been conditioned to think your body’s a trophy. Until suddenly it’s not on *your* terms anymore.” She smirked. “Welcome to the matriarchy, bitch.”
    Daryl’s jaw worked. He looked like he wanted to argue, but then his shoulders sagged. “Christie’s gonna be *right there*,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What if I—I dunno, trip and face-plant or something?”
    Nikki cackled. “Oh no, the horror. Your girlfriend might see your *naked body* in motion.” She flicked a sugar packet at him. “Dude, she’s *dating* you. Trust me, she’s imagined worse.”
    He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not—”
    “Uh-huh.” Nikki rolled her eyes. “Look, either lean into it or fake an injury. But if you bail?” She shrugged. “That’s the story they’ll remember. Not your killer jump shot—just the guy who chickened out.”
    Daryl’s phone buzzed again—Coach this time: *Media wants interviews pre-game. Be sharp.* He groaned, thunking his forehead against the table. “Why is this such a *thing*?”
    “Because power’s a mirror,” Nikki said simply. “And nothing freaks people out more than seeing their own reflection.” She stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder. “For the record? I’d pay to watch you squirm. But I’d respect you more if you owned it.”
    Daryl watched her go, her words settling like stones in his gut. The coffee cart’s awning flapped in the breeze, casting shifting shadows across his hands. He flexed his fingers, still calloused, still steady—just like they’d been when he’d sunk that last shot. The crowd had roared for him then. Now they’d roar for something else entirely.
    He picked up his phone. Typed, deleted, typed again. Finally sent: *Bring the binoculars.* Christie’s reply was instantaneous: *Already packed. 😘*
    Daryl exhaled. Maybe Nikki was right. Maybe the only way out was through—even if it meant stepping onto that court naked in every sense of the word.
    He locked the dorm bathroom door behind him, stripping slowly, the mirror fogging with steam from the shower he hadn’t taken. His reflection stared back—broad shoulders, defined abs, the faint trail of hair leading south—all things he’d been proud of until this moment. He rolled his shoulders, tried a casual dribble motion. His biceps flexed. Okay. Not terrible. Then he pivoted, catching his profile. His stomach lurched. There was no hiding *anything* in this position.
    He squeezed his eyes shut. *They’re all naked too. Everyone. Just a big, floppy, egalitarian nightmare.* But the second he imagined the bleachers full of bare sorority sisters, his traitorous body reacted. “Oh, *come on*,” he hissed, grabbing a towel to cover himself. This was worse than free throws. Worse than finals. This was—
    A fist hammered on the door. “You dying in there?” Tyler called.
    Daryl jumped. “No!”
    “Then *move*. Some of us need to piss.”
    He scrambled into sweatpants, tossing one last glare at the mirror. This wasn’t working.
    Back in his room, he collapsed onto his bed, phone in hand. Christie had sent another text—a blurry screenshot from last year’s game, some poor guy mid-dunk, everything *on display*. Her caption: *Research 😉*.
    Daryl groaned.
    His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could bail. Fake food poisoning. Break his own toe. But then he pictured Nikki’s smirk, Tyler’s nervous jaw twitch, Christie’s *expectation*.
    He typed: *You’re really enjoying this, huh?*
    Her reply was instant: *Oh, babe. You have no idea.*
    The mattress dipped as Tyler flopped onto his own bed. “So. You gonna survive?”
    Daryl stared at the ceiling. “Define ‘survive.’”
    Tyler snorted. “Just don’t think about the—”
    “If you say ‘crowd,’ I’m throwing you out the window.”
    Silence. Then, softly: “It’s different when it’s someone you care about watching.”
    Daryl turned his head. Tyler was studying the ceiling too, jaw tight.
    Huh.
    Maybe they were all screwed together.
    Daryl’s phone buzzed again—Coach. *Media at 8. Suit up.*
    He exhaled.
    Suit up.
    Right.
    *Fuck.*
    The studio lights burned hotter than Daryl remembered as he adjusted his stiff collar. The interviewer—Leah something, according to the hastily scrawled nameplate—crossed her legs with a whisper of nylon that somehow cut through the murmur of the crew. Her skirt rode up another inch. Daryl’s gaze flicked to the teleprompter, then the floor, then *anywhere* but her smirk.
    "So, Daryl," Leah purred, leaning forward just enough to make her blouse gap. "How’s the team *feeling* about Saturday’s big reveal?"
    He shifted in his chair, fabric suddenly too tight across his thighs. "Uh. Team spirit, you know?"
    Her laugh was all teeth. "Mmm. Last year’s ratings spiked *dramatically* during the free-throw segment." She tapped her pen against her bottom lip. "Lots of ladies *love* this event. Myself included."
    Daryl’s ears burned. "Yeah. Cool."
    "*Cool*," she echoed, arching a brow. "You *do* know we’ll all be *watching*, right?"
    *Fuck fuck fuck.*
    Tyler kicked his ankle under the table. Daryl cleared his throat. "Didn’t know about the tradition till recently."
    Leah’s grin widened. "Well." She uncrossed and recrossed her legs like a damn predator. "Consider this your *orientation*."
    Behind the cameras, a PA whispered something that made the sound guy snort.
    Daryl muttered *great* through clenched teeth—just as Leah winked at the lens.
    Cut to commercial.
    The second the red light died, Tyler hissed, *"Dude, you’re sweating through your suit."*
    Daryl didn’t trust himself to answer.
    Leah’s heels clicked toward craft services, her laugh trailing behind her like a threat.
    Tyler whistled low. "Well. *That’s* gonna be trending by noon."
    Daryl’s phone buzzed—Christie: *Just saw the clip. She’s *really* into your ‘team spirit.’ 😏*
    He groaned.
    Somewhere, Nikki was laughing her ass off.
    Daryl knew this before he even rounded the corner to the quad—could feel it in his bones like an incoming storm—and yet he still wasn’t prepared for the sight of her perched on a picnic table, phone clutched in both hands as she wheezed uncontrollably.
    "Cold shower," she gasped, wiping her eyes as he approached. "That’s my professional recommendation. Preferably while screaming into a towel." She turned her screen toward him: a frozen frame of his interview, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing as Leah licked her lips. "Holy *shit*, Bishop. You looked like a Victorian virgin who just saw an ankle."
    Daryl yanked her phone away, thumb smearing the screen as he swiped to delete the screenshot. "It wasn’t—she was—"
    "Objectifying you?" Nikki arched a brow. "Wild how that feels, huh?" She stretched, tank top riding up to reveal the swell of her stomach—unapologetic, unposed. "For the record, I skinny-dipped in the chancellor’s fountain last winter. Nearly got expelled. Zero regrets."
    Daryl’s grip on her phone tightened. "Yeah, well, not all of us—"
    "Own their bodies?" Nikki plucked the phone from his fingers. "Or just *think* they do until some TV bimbo reduces them to meat?" She shrugged. "Bodies are bodies. Yours just happens to be attached to your ego."
    Daryl exhaled sharply. The quad buzzed around them—students laughing, skateboards clattering—all oblivious to the tectonic shift in his chest. Nikki was wrong. It wasn’t ego. It was Christie’s grin in the stands, Tyler’s nervous tells, the way Leah’s gaze had crawled over him like he was already naked.
    Nikki nudged his shoe with hers. "Hey. You’re not *less* because people look."
    Daryl stared at his hands—still shaking faintly.
    She tossed him an orange from her bag. "Eat this. Then go freeze your insecurities off."
    He caught it on reflex, the citrus sharp under his nails. Nikki was already walking backward, grinning. "Saturday’s gonna be *legendary*."
    Daryl didn’t doubt it.
    The orange tasted like acid on his tongue.
    Nikki tossed her bag over her shoulder and jerked her chin toward the dorms. "Come on. Got something to show you that might... adjust your viewpoint." She wiggled her eyebrows—a gesture that made Daryl instantly suspicious.
    "I swear to god if this is a PowerPoint on male objectification—"
    "Better." She grinned, already walking backward. "Trust me?"
    Daryl didn't, but his feet followed anyway. The path to Nikki's dorm felt longer than usual, every glance from passing students like a branding iron. Nikki hummed something tuneless as she swiped them inside, the hall smelling faintly of burnt popcorn and weed.
    Her room was exactly what he expected—band posters, a pride flag duct-taped to the ceiling, and a suspicious stain on the carpet that smelled like tequila. She kicked a pile of laundry aside and rummaged through her desk drawer, tossing out tangled headphones and granola bar wrappers. "Aha." She held up a thumb drive shaped like a tiny dildo. "Class project from last semester."
    Daryl blinked. "You're joking."
    "I *wish*." She plugged it into her laptop, flopping onto the bed. The screen flickered to life—a paused video titled *PERFORMANCE ART FINAL - NSFW* in Comic Sans. Nikki patted the space beside her. "Sit. This'll blow your Puritan mind."
    Daryl hesitated. "Is this—"
    "Me? Yeah." She clicked play without fanfare. The video showed Nikki standing in the campus amphitheater at midnight, completely nude under the floodlights, reciting *The Odyssey* in ancient Greek while covered in blue body paint. The crowd was a mix of stunned professors and drunk frat boys, some clutching their beers like lifelines.
    Daryl's throat tightened. "Holy shit."
    Nikki fast-forwarded to the Q&A portion where a guy in a Sigma Chi shirt shouted *Show us your tits!* She'd calmly replied in perfect Greek, then threw a water balloon at his crotch. The caption read *NIKKI 1 - PATRIARCHY 0*.
    "Point is," Nikki said, freezing the frame on her middle finger to the camera, "nudity's just skin until *they* make it weird." She eyed him. "Your move, Olympian."
    Daryl stared at her frozen grin—bold, unashamed. His pulse hammered. Christie's texts burned in his pocket. Somewhere, Leah was probably editing their interview to emphasize his flop sweat.
    The thumb drive winked at him from the laptop.
    He exhaled. "Fuck."
    Nikki smirked. "Exactly."
    Daryl swallowed hard, his gaze darting wildly—first to her face, then the ceiling, then the floor, anywhere but *there*—but the image was already seared into his retinas: Nikki, completely bare, one hand on her hip, the other twirling a Sharpie like a baton. His pulse roared in his ears.
    "Close your eyes," she said, voice dripping with amusement.
    Daryl blinked. "What?"
    "Close. Them."
    He hesitated, then squeezed his eyes shut—expecting a prank, a punchline, *something*. The silence stretched. Then:
    "Open."
    His eyelids flew up. Nikki stood inches away, arms outstretched, spinning in a slow circle. "Oh *no*," she drawled, faux-horrified, "a *man* is seeing my *naked body*! However will I recover?" She did a mocking little shimmy, then snatched the Sharpie off her desk and drew a quick, crude penis on her own thigh. "There. Now we match."
    Daryl made a strangled noise.
    Nikki rolled her eyes. "Relax, Bishop. It's just *skin*." She grabbed her discarded tank top and lobbed it at his face. "Your turn."
    Daryl choked. "*What?*"
    "Strip. Or are you scared?" She arched a brow. "I already saw you shirtless at the pool last summer. Not impressed."
    His face burned. This was insane. But something in her expression—the *challenge*—made his fingers twitch toward his hem.
    Then his phone buzzed. Christie: *Just ran into Leah from Channel 9. She says you’re ‘shy.’ 😏*
    Nikki snickered. "Oh, this is *gold*." She plopped onto her bed, still gloriously unclothed, and tossed him the Sharpie. "Draw a dick on yourself or bail. Your choice, Olympian."
    Daryl stared at the marker.
    Somewhere, Tyler was probably hyperventilating into a paper bag.
    Christie was *laughing*.
    And Nikki—*naked, unabashed Nikki*—was grinning like she'd already won.
    He uncapped the Sharpie.
    The first stroke was shaky.
    The second, less so.
    By the third, Nikki was howling.
    Daryl looked down. A lopsided stick figure—*allegedly* him—waving a tiny basketball over its… equipment. The caption: *TEAM SPIRIT*.
    Nikki wiped tears from her eyes. "Now *that's* a headline."
    Daryl exhaled.
    Maybe humiliation wasn't the worst thing.
    Maybe *control* was the real game.
    His phone lit up again—Coach: *Media wants a statement. Something bold.*
    Daryl smirked.
    Oh, he had *bold*.
    Nikki’s laughter echoed off the walls as Daryl sat frozen, Sharpie dick waving proudly on his thigh, his body betraying him in ways he couldn't will away. "Relax," she wheezed, wiping her eyes. "Newsflash, Bishop—blood still goes *places* when you're naked. Even I know that, and I exclusively date people without prostates." She stretched, unabashed, her own Sharpie masterpiece glistening under the dorm’s shitty fluorescent light. "Besides, I’m objectively hot. Take it as a compliment."
    Daryl’s cheeks burned. "This is *not* helping."
    "Wrong." Nikki snagged her jeans off the floor and stepped into them with a deliberate slowness, watching him over her shoulder. "You’re staying bare. Gotta practice being the only naked one in the room." She zipped her fly with a *snick* that somehow felt obscene. "Think of it as exposure therapy. With *bonus* awkward boners."
    He groaned, covering his face—which only made her cackle harder. "Oh my *god*, your *ears* are red." She leaned in, poking his bicep. "Tell Christie I want royalties for this character development."
    Just as Daryl opened his mouth to retort, the door banged open. Andrea—Nikki’s girlfriend, all leather jackets and combat boots—stopped dead, her gaze raking over Daryl’s very exposed, very *marked* state. Then she wolf-whistled, long and low. "*Damn*, Bishop. Campus *underwear* model, huh?"
    Nikki collapsed onto the bed, howling. Daryl lunged for a pillow. "I thought you were lesbians!"
    Andrea smirked, tossing her keys onto the desk. "Bi as hell, sweetheart." She winked. "And *this* is going straight to my spank bank. See you at the big game." She made a show of miming binoculars.
    Nikki was now gasping for air, kicking her legs like an overturned beetle. "*TEAM SPIRIT*," she screeched, pointing at his Sharpie-fied thigh.
    Daryl buried his face in the pillow. The fabric smelled like Nikki’s lavender detergent—which, *fuck*, he did *not* need to know right now. Somewhere, the universe was laughing at him. Probably while taking notes for the highlight reel.
    Andrea plopped onto the bed beside Nikki, grinning. "So. How’s prep for the *naked* Olympics going?"
    Nikki finally caught her breath enough to wheeze, "We’re *winning*."
    Daryl groaned louder. The Sharpie felt like it was burning into his skin.
    Andrea snapped a photo with her phone. "For posterity."
    He was *so* screwed.
    Nikki's smirk grew sharper as she pointed at his crimson face. "See? Two seconds ago, you were almost comfortable—because *I* don't want you." She gestured to Andrea, who was already texting rapidly, no doubt spreading the evidence. "But *her*? Suddenly it's real. Because now you're *not just a body*—you're a *specimen*." She leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. "Welcome to *existing while female*."
    Andrea tossed her phone aside and grabbed Daryl’s wrist before he could yank the pillow back over his lap. "Oh no, superstar. You don’t get to hide now." She pinned his arm to the mattress with surprising strength, her grin all teeth. "Imagine Christie watching you squirm like this. Imagine *hundreds* of us." Her free hand waved vaguely at the dorm walls. "This room? Multiply it by, like, a *stadium*."
    Daryl’s throat clicked as he swallowed. The Sharpie doodle itched. Nikki’s knee brushed his bare thigh as she shifted, and he flinched—not from disgust, but from the *awareness* of it. Andrea’s grip tightened. "Uh-uh. Stay. This is *educational*." Her thumb traced the vein on his wrist, clinical and deliberate. "Feel that? That’s your pulse hitting warp speed because *we see you*. Not the captain. Not the athlete. Just *you*. Naked. Mortified." She tilted her head. "Kinda hot, actually."
    Nikki snorted. "Down, girl." But her eyes stayed locked on Daryl’s face, studying the way his breath hitched. "Here’s the thing, Bishop—you’ve spent your whole life being *looked at*, but never *seen*. Big difference." She flicked the pillow out of his reach. "So. Let’s practice." 
    Andrea released his wrist to snap her fingers in front of his nose. "Eyes up here, champ." When he obeyed, she smirked. "Good start. Now—describe how you feel. In detail. Or we call Christie for a *live commentary*." 
    Daryl’s stomach dropped. Nikki’s phone was already in her hand, Christie’s contact pulled up. 
    The cursor blinked. 
    He exhaled. 
    *Fuck.* 
    "Like... prey," he admitted hoarsely. 
    Andrea’s grin softened—just slightly—as she exchanged a glance with Nikki. "Ding-ding." She patted his cheek. "Now you’re getting it."
    The rest of the evening became a bizarre exercise in endurance. Daryl tried to eat chips shirtless—only for Nikki to “accidentally” drop a cold soda can into his lap. He attempted to stretch—Andrea “trip-ped” and planted her palm square on his Sharpie doodle with a theatrical gasp. Every flinch, every choked-off yelp sent them into fresh peals of laughter.
    “This is torture,” Daryl muttered, gingerly adjusting his stance near the mini-fridge.
    “Nah,” Nikki corrected, tossing a grape at his chest. He caught it on reflex, then scowled when she winked. “Torture is when Leah from Channel 9 asks you about your ‘defensive stance’ mid-game.” She mimed holding a microphone, batting her lashes. “*How do you protect such… vulnerable assets, Daryl?*”
    Andrea snorted into her energy drink. “Bonus points if Christie’s front row with binoculars.”
    Daryl groaned, rubbing his temples. The Sharpie had smeared from sweat, turning his thigh into a Rorschach test of mortification. Nikki stretched like a cat, deliberately arching her back. “Relax. We’re just… acclimating you.” Her grin turned wicked. “Think of us as your hype women.”
    “Hype women,” Daryl echoed flatly.
    Andrea smirked. “Yep. We’ll be the ones heckling Tyler when he inevitably tries to hide behind the ball rack.” She snatched Nikki’s phone, angling the camera. “Say cheese, Olympian.”
    The flash went off. Daryl’s grimace—half-panicked, half-resigned—was immortalized next to his own crude artwork. Nikki snatched the phone back, cackling as she typed rapidly. “Sent to Christie. Caption: *Training hard*.”
    Daryl lunged for the phone. Andrea blocked him with a well-placed elbow. “Nuh-uh. You’re *embracing the process*.” She fake-whispered to Nikki, “He’s gonna be *so* funny on Saturday.”
    Something in Daryl’s chest twisted. Not fear. Not even humiliation. Something sharper—the realization that this wasn’t about shame at all. It was about spectacle. About *performance*. And god help him, he’d spent his whole life perfecting that particular skill.
    Nikki’s phone buzzed. Christie’s reply lit up the screen: *Tell him I’ll bring the body paint.*
    Andrea wheezed. Nikki pumped her fist. Daryl exhaled, slow and measured, and reached for another chip.
    Let them laugh.
    Saturday was coming.
    And—Sharpie dick or not—he’d be ready.
    Daryl stepped onto the court and instantly understood two things: First, the acoustics of the gymnasium amplified every shuffle, every nervous cough, every *drip* of pre-game sweat hitting polished hardwood. Second, the locker room had lied. Nudity among teammates was one thing—a functional, shower-fogged reality. This? The second the double doors swung open, the roar hit him like a physical force—a wall of sound punctuated by whistles, stomping feet, and a shrill voice screaming *TASTE THE RAINBOW* as Leah from Channel 9’s camera light blinded him. His skin prickled, not from the draft, but from the sheer *focus* of hundreds of eyes tracking his every twitch.
    Beside him, Tyler flinched so hard his kneecaps audibly clicked. “Jesus,” Tyler hissed, cupping himself like a nervous prawn. “It’s like a fucking *zoo* in here.” Daryl followed his gaze to the bleachers—packed with students waving signs (*SHOW US YOUR DRIBBLE!*), alumnae clutching binoculars, and Christie, front row center, grinning behind her phone as she filmed Nikki wolf-whistling with both fingers in her mouth. His stomach flipped. Then Marcus bumped into them, his usual swagger reduced to a stiff-legged waddle. “Cool,” Marcus muttered, dead-eyed. “We’re meat. Cool cool cool.”
    Coach’s whistle cut through the chaos. “Form up, ladies!” The crowd *aww*’ed in unison. Daryl’s hands—trained to cradle a ball, to pivot, to *protect*—itched to cover himself. Instead, he squared his shoulders and inhaled. The air smelled like popcorn, perfume, and the sharp tang of adrenaline-sweat. Someone yelled *WORK THAT ASS, BISHOP!* Christie blew him a kiss. Nikki mimed jerking off a giant invisible dick.
    Tyler groaned. “I’m gonna vomit.”
    Daryl exhaled. Flexed his fingers. Let the noise wash over him—the laughter, the catcalls, the *weight* of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with skill. The whistle blew. The ball slapped into his palms. And for the first time in his life, Daryl Bishop played not for the crowd, but *through* them.
    Christie’s eyes darkened as he drove past her, sweat gleaming. Nikki whooped. Tyler tripped over his own feet. And the game—raw, ridiculous, *real*—began.
    Daryl had expected terror. Instead, he got absurdity. Marcus’s dick swung like a metronome set to “chaos” as he backpedaled. Tyler palmed his junk like it was made of blown glass. Bryce—bless his shameless heart—full-on helicoptered during a free throw, cackling when the ref tossed him a warning. The ball bounced, the crowd roared, and suddenly, Daryl was laughing—*really* laughing—as Tyler took an errant pass straight to the taint and folded like a lawn chair.
    “You good?” Daryl wheezed, offering a hand.
    Tyler groaned, cupping himself. “Define ‘good.’” The crowd howled as he limped to the bench, still hunched. “Fuckin’... feminist agenda,” he muttered, which only made Nikki scream *HELL YEAH IT IS* from the stands.
    The whistle blew. Play resumed. Daryl pivoted—and froze. Christie was *leaning forward*, her lower lip caught between her teeth, gaze locked on his—
    *Thwack.* The ball nailed him square in the ass.
    “Eyes up, Bishop!” Bryce crowed. The crowd lost it. Daryl rubbed his cheek—both sets—and bit back a grin. This wasn’t humiliation. This was *theater*. And he? Was *starring*.
    He scooped the ball, dribbled hard, and charged the net—naked, unguarded, *alive*. The gymnasium blurred. The catcalls faded. All that remained was the *smack* of skin on leather, the burn of lungs, the dizzying *freedom* of having nothing left to hide. He leapt. The ball left his fingertips. The buzzer sounded. And as it swished through the net, Daryl Bishop—fully exposed, fully *seen*—finally understood the punchline.
    For three breathless seconds, the gym was silent—no wolf whistles, no *measurements* chants, just the echo of sneakers and the collective inhale of hundreds holding their breath. Then Nikki’s voice punched through the quiet: “*Fuck* yeah, Bishop!” The dam broke. A tidal wave of whistles and stomping feet crashed over him, Christie’s ecstatic scream rising above the din as she practically climbed over the bleachers. Andrea cupped her hands around her mouth and bellowed, “PUT IT IN MY *HIGHLIGHT REEL*!”
    Daryl wiped sweat from his brow, grinning despite himself. The absurdity hit him then—how Tyler was currently bent double trying to “adjust” without touching himself, how Bryce kept sneaking glances at the crowd to see who was watching *him*, how Marcus’s face had gone slack with terror every time he had to jump. And yet—here they were. Playing. *Really* playing.
    Christie caught his eye from the stands, her earlier teasing replaced by something raw and awed. She mouthed *holy shit* as Nikki slung an arm around her shoulders, both of them bouncing on the bleachers like rabid fans at a championship. Not objectifying. Not leering. Just *watching*. The realization settled warm in Daryl’s chest: They weren’t here for the spectacle. They were here for the *game*.
    Bryce hip-checked him, grinning. “Told you they’d love your *form*,” he stage-whispered, waggling his eyebrows. Daryl snorted, shoving him off—but his hands were steady, his pulse calm. The crowd’s energy thrummed through him, not as scrutiny, but as *fuel*. When the ref tossed him the ball, he spun it once on his finger—just to hear them lose their minds—before driving hard toward the net, laughter trailing behind him like a comet’s tail.
    The game blurred into instinct. Screens, pivots, the slick *slap* of skin on leather. Daryl forgot the bleachers, forgot the Sharpie smudged on his thigh, forgot everything but the rhythm of the play—until the whistle screeched. One shot left. Tie game. The gym held its breath.
    Christie stood abruptly, binoculars dangling from her fist. Nikki cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “NO PRESSURE, BISHOP—JUST YOUR *DICK* ON THE LINE!” The crowd howled. Daryl wiped his palms on his thighs—no towel, no jersey to hide behind—and stepped to the line. The ball felt heavier than usual. Or maybe that was the weight of every eye tracing his every twitch.
    He exhaled. Flexed his fingers. The noise faded to a distant buzz.
    Then he shot.
    The ball left his fingertips in a perfect arc—no hesitation, no flinch. For one suspended second, the entire gym tracked its flight: past Tyler’s half-hearted block, over Bryce’s outstretched arms, through the net with a *swish* so clean it barely rippled the cords. The buzzer blared. Silence.
    Then—chaos.
    The bleachers erupted. Christie vaulted the railing, shrieking. Nikki body-slammed Andrea in midair, howling. Even Leah from Channel 9 dropped her mic to clap, grinning like a shark. Daryl barely had time to register Tyler’s bone-crushing hug before the team dog-piled him, skin slick with sweat and laughter, their earlier jitters forgotten in the sheer, stupid joy of *winning*.
    Bryce whooped directly into his ear. “MVP! MVP!” The chant spread, morphing into something rowdier—“*SHOW US THE TROPHY!*”—as the crowd surged forward. Daryl grinned, chest heaving, and let them roar.
    Christie reached him first, her hands hot on his shoulders. “So,” she breathed, eyes blazing, “was it everything you dreamed of?”
    Daryl glanced at the scoreboard. Then at Nikki, now crowd-surfing on a sea of outstretched hands. Then at Tyler, still cupping himself but *smiling*.
    “Better,” he said, and kissed her.
    The gym *exploded*.
    Daryl barely had time to register Christie's kiss before Leah's microphone jammed between them, her manicured nails digging into his shoulder. "Congrats, champ!" she purred, her smile sharp enough to cut glass. "You're going *nationals*!"
    For one blissful second, Daryl thought *uniforms*. Thought *dignity*. Then Leah's smirk widened. "Naked College Basketball just got franchised," she announced, pivoting to face the crowd. "And guess who's the *face* of the movement?" 
    Daryl's jaw locked. "Wonderful," he gritted out—just as Nikki vaulted the scorer's table behind them, already yanking her shirt over her head. The crowd's roar hit a fever pitch as she kicked off her jeans mid-stride, streaking across the court with her arms flung wide. Somewhere overhead, the PA crackled: "*Uh, folks, we have a streaker on the court—*" 
    The irony hung in the air like the scent of sweat and popcorn. Daryl snorted. "Always an exhibitionist." 
    Christie's palm cracked against his bare ass with a wet *smack*. "Damn right she is," she laughed, her eyes tracking Nikki's wild lap around the key. The team whooped as Nikki high-fived Bryce mid-stride, her cackle echoing off the rafters. 
    Leah's microphone hovered near Daryl's mouth, her smirk now tinged with exasperation. "Any comment on—" 
    "Nope," Daryl said, grabbing Christie's wrist and tugging her toward the chaos. Nikki's bare feet skidded to a halt in front of them, her chest heaving. "Your turn," she panted, flinging an arm around Daryl's waist. "Nationals, baby!" 
    The crowd *screamed* approval. 
    Daryl shook his head—but his grin matched hers.

I actually based this story on a dream that I had the night that I wrote it, I just had sort of this dream where I was playing basketball naked, and all of these women were coming to see it because it was a tradition of naked basketball. I have never heard of any college that actually has naked basketball games like that, but I thought it was an interesting concept, and I think it works well as a story, just something that would get all of these women to go to the basketball game and have a grand old time at the men's expense, but you see that the guy in the story is basically very shy about that, much like I would be. But I am no athlete, I would never be able to make a basketball team and don't really have much interest in sports, but I thought it was a very funny idea, the idea of a bunch of guys playing basketball naked with their nuts flying around everywhere and all of the women just sort of going wild and having a grand old time with it.

I also like the fact that his lesbian friend pretty much is sort of an exhibitionist and tries to get him over his inhibition, pointing out that women get this all the time, so this is kind of a fun thing for women, and even though she's a lesbian she finds the whole thing a very amusing to go to the basketball game along with her girlfriend. And I like the fact that the end she ends up streaking, so while this was mostly a CFNM story there was a little bit of female nudity and streaking in there that I thought works pretty well and balances the story out a little bit.