Your hand stays firmly clamped over his mouth. You feel the vibration of his breath against your palm, hot and desperate, but you don’t loosen your grip. Not yet. He’s looking at you in disbelief, pupils blown wide. His big chest heaving under the thin white tank, shaking with excitement on the exhale. You love that you arouse this response from him.
You maneuver him suddenly onto his back with a swift twist. As you pin him down, knees forcing his thighs apart. He ends up splayed open, legs spread wide, knees pulled in close to his chest by your grip. The gape at his hole more obvious now, fabric begging to be torn away.
You lean back slightly, just enough to take him in. Eyes surveying the body he rebuilt while thinking of you. His white tank clings damp from the evening air, nipples peaked and dark under the fabric, rising with each covered breath. You look at it. His nipples. You slowly trace the outline of it with your thumb, feeling it harden further, then pinch lightly through cotton. He arches, muffled sound buzzing into your hand.
“I read somewhere you built this body for me,” you whisper low, voice dripping smug possession. The grin curling at your lips as you watch his reaction. “All that sweating in the gym… this chest, this waist, this ass. You put it together for my approval, huh?”
You slide the tank up slow, exposing skin inch by inch. His chest gleams in the moonlight filtering through the mesh. Heavy pecs like tits, flexing as he breathes hard. The faint scars along his jaw catch the light. Pink lines he hides with a beard, now proud under your gaze. You lean down, lips brushing the scar before you kiss it, then bite it softly. Not hard enough to break, but enough to make him jolt, cock jumping under the pajama pants like it's desperate for the same attention.
You sit back up, eyes never leaving his. “I was your spark,” you murmur, fingers trailing down his sternum, circling one nipple again, tweaking it slow. “So this is mine to play with now. My property. Mine to use and abuse.”
Your hand moves to the other pec, cupping the weight, then slapping lightly. A sharp, playful smack that makes it bounce, skin pinking under your palm. You watch the flush spread, the way his eyes glaze, body trembling beneath you. Another slap, harder this time, the sound echoing soft in the tent. He moans into your palm, hips bucking up instinctive, cock straining against fabric.
“Look at you, all laid out like livestock for inspection,” you laugh low, cocky as hell, hand slapping again, watching the heavy flesh jiggle and redden. “These big pecs? Built for me to slap and suck. My tits I get to play with whenever I want.”
Your hands move lower, gripping his thighs, spreading them impossibly wider. He doesn’t strain in this position. Impressively flexible. The pajama pants cling low, the material dipping where his hole knows what’s coming. You press your palm there, rubbing circles over the dip, feeling the heat pulse through fabric, the hole twitching nasty and desperate.
"What's this?" you tease, tapping lightly, watching the fabric wetten from inside. “Is this ass hungry?”
He nods desperately, moans vibrating into your palm, eyes pleading. You hook the waistband, tug the pants down slow, his dick springing free. He leaks a steady string of pre-cum that drips onto his waist, pooling in the dip of his obliques.
You grab it firmly, start stroking it teasingly, and then draw your face close to his. He’s helpless now and he knows it. Absolutely losing his control under your touch. Eyes wide but now softening with pleasure now that a hand is on his dick.
You get real close with his mouth still muzzled: "This is mine too, you know. I built it... my spark did." The champion’s energy surges claiming what he believes to be rightfully his. Your cock throbs in your shorts, pre-cum soaking the fabric as you watch him writhe under your gaze. His body is open, exposed, and totally yours to objectify like a prize he crafted especially for you.
*
You grind down once, cock sliding along the cleft of his bare ass through your shorts, pre-cum soaking the front of the fabric. The friction is rough, hot, maddening. You feel the heat of him against you, the way his hole clenches when your head nudges through the cloth. You spit down there and watch it drip straight onto the dip, running down, mixing with his own leak.
Your hand leaves his nipple, slides down his side, gripping his hip hard enough to leave prints. You tug the pajama pants lower, freeing him completely. His cock slaps against his stomach, thick and curved, head glossy and dripping. You wrap your fingers around it, stroke once slow, thumb smearing the pre-cum over the slit. He bucks up, desperate, ass pressing back against your cock like he’s trying to pull you in.
You grind harder. Bare now, shorts shoved down, cock sliding between his cheeks, pre-cum slicking the way. Skin on skin, hot and wet, the sounds obscene in the small space: slick glide, his muffled whimpers, your low groans against his neck.
He’s pushing back harder now, ass clenching, hole winking against your cockhead. You spit again, let it run down the length of you, slicking everything. You feel your balls aching, heavy, full from the long buildup: preseason discipline, retention, all of it pouring into this moment.
You line up properly, head pressing against his entrance, teasing the stretch. He pushes back, eager, impatient. You hold it there, just the tip — letting him feel the pressure, the promise, the power, and the touch. His hole flutters around you, hot and wet, begging. You lean down, mouth at his ear, voice low and rough.
“Tan apretado… me vas a hacer correrme dentro,” you whisper.
He nods frantically, moans muffled against your palm, body trembling. You push in slow. Inch by inch, the initial burn hitting him like a spark reignited after years in the dark. Tight, stinging stretch that makes his eyes widen, body tense and yield all at once, a resurrection of sensation long buried under pain and recovery.
As the head pops in, you pull your hand from his mouth, crashing into a kiss. Slow, deep, sensual. Tongues tangle, beards scraping rough and electric, tasting salt and rose shampoo, desire unfurling like smoke.
He breaks the kiss, glances down at the sight. Your cock stretching him open, bodies locked in raw union. The smell hits him then, a wave crashing over: your potent musk, salty sweat laced with raw fertility, regenerating thick in the humid tent air, blending with his sweet manuka honey and rose, pre-cum sharpness cutting through like a claim. Overripe, insistent, fertile promise that makes him moan loud and guttural, like an animal.
Instinct takes over. You clamp your hand back over his mouth, silencing him. His eyes lock on yours, intense, fierce. In response, he pushes his hole out skillfully, loosening the grip like a velvet invitation, letting your cock sink a couple inches deeper. You feel it and love it. His bodily surrender.
The heat is overwhelming, velvet tight and perfect. You bottom out with a shared gasp, balls flush against him, and hold there. Savoring the pulse, the way his walls grip you like they never want to let go.
And then you start to move.
Slow drags at first. Pulling almost all the way out, watching the way his hole grips at you, pink and glistening, before sliding back in deep. Each thrust rocks the mattress harder, the plastic squealing, threatening to give. You set a rhythm: deep, grinding rolls of your hips that make his whole body jolt forward, tits dragging against the sheet, nipples catching on the fabric until he’s whimpering.
Your hand snakes around again, finding one swollen nipple. Pinching hard, rolling it rough between fingers. He bucks back into you, ass slamming against your hips, taking you deeper on every stroke. The sound is obscene. Wet slaps of skin, your balls against his. Sweat drips down your chest onto his side, mixing with his. You can’t stop staring at yourself sliding in and out of his ass. Obsessed with the way the two bodies are joined through sex.
He’s moaning open-mouthed into your hand as you fuck him, hole opening around your cock like he’s close just from this.
Your hand over his mouth transitions slow—testing, sliding two fingers past his lips. He takes to it like a charm, sucking your thick fingers eagerly, tongue swirling while his ass splits open around you. You push boundaries, add a third finger, occupying his entire oral cavity, stretching his jaw like a filthy promise. It hits you then, arousingly clear: he’ll let you do anything to him. It triggers the flip. The thought surges hot, makes you throb, want to cum right then and there.
You pull out suddenly. His whine of protest cut short as you flip him onto his back. You push his legs up, knees to chest, opening him wide. You look down and admire your cock’s destruction. His hole is raw, puffy, and already starting to reshape around the memory of your girth. You line up again, thrust in deep. Missionary now, face to face, eyes locked.
You fuck him like that: hard, relentless, the mattress squealing louder with every slam. His tits bounce with every impact, nipples brushing your chest hair, sending shocks through him that make his hole clench tighter. You lean down, mouth latching onto one. Sucking vicious, teeth grazing, tongue flicking the throbbing peak while you pound into him. He’s babbling now—your name, Spanish curses, pleas for more.
The pressure builds unbearable. balls slapping wet, sweat flying, rain pounding harder outside. His tits are deep crimson, swollen almost purple from the abuse, every pinch and suck making him arch and cry out. Your cock throbs inside him, foreskin dragged back with every thrust, pre-cum mixing with spit.
Layers crash together: your preseason aches throbbing deep in your core, retention uncoiling like a storm; his body’s resurrection, scars alive with pleasure; musks accumulating thick, blended into humid fog. Salty fertility claiming sweet honey rose. Realistic heat, sweat-slick glide. Prostate destroyed and swollen, hanging by a thread. “He’ll let me do anything to him”—his face shows it, eyes glazing, close.
That thought ignites you. Unlocks the flood. You imagine it all. Future filth flashing like lightning. Him bent over a locker room bench, your cock buried deep while you slap that resurrected ass red. Pre-cum dripping from his hole onto the tile. Him on his knees in some hidden hotel suite, mouth stretched around you, three fingers—no, four—gagging him silent as you fuck his throat raw, tears mixing with spit.
You tying him spread-eagle to the bedposts, edging him for hours with toys you sneak in your gear bag, his swollen prostate begging while you whisper ownership over every scar. Outdoor nastiness — pinned against a tree in the bush, rain slicking skin, your hand over his mouth again as you breed him deep, musk marking the earth like territory.
Him riding you reverse in the tent next time, tits bouncing wild, hole milking you while you choke him lightly from behind, testing how far he'll go, how much he'll take because he rebuilt this body for you.
Thrusts faster.
Deeper.
Hole clenches—velvet vise pulling you in.
Balls tighten, heavy with preseason seed, that coiled retention finally snapping.
You growl low, burying to the hilt. The orgasm hits monumental. Wave after crashing wave, your load unleashed like a dam break, flooding his resurrected depths. Preseason ache pours into him, hot ropes pulse out, thick and endless, claiming every ripple of his walls.
He takes it all, body arching divine, releasing his own spill all over himself. You make him cum, hard. Ropes arcing hot across his abs, splattering those crimson nipples, hole spasming like resurrection fire, sucking you deeper, milking every drop as if his survival demands it.
An orgasm so intense it borders pain. Your core rubbed raw, his prostate swollen to bursting, bodies locked in an erotic storm, sweat and seed blending into something sacred, filthy, unbreakable.
You stay buried deep for long, trembling moments after the storm breaks, both of you gasping into the humid dark of the tent. Rain drums steady on the canvas overhead, softer now, like the world exhaling with you.
Slowly—deliberately—you begin to pull out.
The drag is exquisite torture. Your cock slides free inch by slick inch, thick and still half-hard, glistening with the filthy mix of spit, pre-cum, and your own thick seed. As the head pops free with a wet, obscene sound, his wrecked hole stays open for a heartbeat. Puffy, swollen lips flushed dark pink, quivering like they’re still trying to hold you inside.
Then the first slow bubble of your load appears, creamy white pearling at the rim before it oozes out in a lazy, heavy trickle, sliding down the cleft of his ass and pooling warm against the air mattress.
You watch, mesmerized.
This is the craftsmanship paying off.
His hole—rebuilt through months of pain, physio, sweat, and quiet nights thinking of you—now marked by your work. Forged masterpiece. The gape closes slow, reluctant, the ring of muscle fluttering weakly as more of your seed leaks out, thick ropes clinging to the puffy folds, dripping down to his taint.
You reach down, two fingers gathering the mess, rubbing it in slow circles over the sensitive skin, then pushing back inside—deep and possessive. He gasps, body jerking with overstimulation, hole clenching around your fingers like it’s starving for more even as it aches.
You keep going, feeding your cum back into him, stuffing him full again, making sure he feels every drop. Owned. Claimed. The burn of too-much turns liquid, melting into something softer, warmer—ecstatic afterglow that spreads through his limbs like honey. His heavy chest rises and falls, crimson nipples still throbbing, glistening with his own release. Scars on his jaw catch the faint moonlight, proud now, alive with the proof of survival and surrender.
He looks up at you through heavy lashes, eyes glassy, lips parted, a small, wrecked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You lean down, press a slow kiss to the scar—soft this time, reverent—then to his swollen mouth. Taste salt, rose, and the faint metallic edge of everything you’ve just done.
The tent smells like both of you now: fertile musk, sweet honey, spilled seed, rain-soaked canvas. A scent that will linger long after the morning comes.
You settle beside him, one arm slung heavy across his waist, cock softening against his thigh. The mattress is ruined, sweat and cum everywhere, but neither of you moves to clean up the mess.
Outside, the rain slows to a whisper.
Inside, the ache is different now… not preseason hunger, not recovery pain… but the good, earned kind of ache. The kind of ache that reminds you both: that this body, this desire, this moment, is worth every brutal step it took to get here.