He drops his swim bag by the door. His shirt comes off first. Slow, fabric pulling across his chest, cool air kissing damp skin. He stands there a moment, bare torso, feeling the day's ache in his muscles, the good kind that says he gave everything. The room smells faintly of rose and manuka honey, sweet against the chlorine still clinging to him.
Shower next. Hot water hits hard, steam rising fast. Soap lathers in his hands, rose-scented, thick. He washes methodically: chest, arms, down to his waist, thighs, ass. Palms gliding over the curve, suds sliding between. He exhales long, letting the water pound his back until the tension melts.
Out now, towel low on his hips, he moves to the sink. He’s flossing his teeth. His wolfish smile. He brushes his teeth slow, foam minty, watching himself in the mirror. Beard dark, jaw set, eyes tired but calm. Rinse, spit, tongue scrape last. Skincare follows. Olay Regenerist moisturizer scent lingers, warm and golden. His reflection looks back softer now, cared for.
Gratitude settles in quiet. He closes his eyes, whispers to God: thanks for the body, the day, the strength. And for you — the flame that kept him going. When everything felt heavy, thinking of you pushed him forward. Desire coming back slow, steady, like the tea on his lips.
He sets his mug of peppermint tea down on the bedside table with a soft clink and sinks deeper into the pillows, letting his body fully relax against the soft fabric. Phone already in hand, he flicks it open out of habit and begins scrolling through the feed in a slow, unhurried way.
The usual mix of posts passes by until your face appears on the screen in a fresh practice reel posted to Instagram. His thumb pauses over the play button for just a moment as his heart starts racing.
He taps play and watches you on the court, sweat already glistening under the hot sun as you move through sharp drills with focused intensity. Your body claiming every inch of space with powerful forehands and quick baseline sprints. The sweat of your effort rolls down your perfect body as you run backwards to the baseline to start the drill again. His eyes widen in bed as he sees your pecs bounce like ripe fruit in 4K.
Leaning back against the pillows, he lets his breath out steadily while the video replays. He feels the intimate pull of a private ritual. The wolf inside him stirs slowly with a primal hunger that builds as he rewinds the clip briefly to watch certain movements again. His mind beginning to awaken with those experimental fantasies that always seem to surface when he lingers too long.
“Just a video,” he tells himself, but the mental kink has already begun to awaken fully as he saves the reel directly into his hidden folder labeled "Sexxxy Babyboy" a growing collection of clips that capture your serves, your focused expressions, and the way your body moves with such commanding presence on the court.
He glances over at the Tongan coconut oil resting on his bedside table, glowing warm in the yellow light with the lid slightly loose from previous nights. He thinks about how good it’ll feel to rub one out to this. The deep ache still present in his thighs and ass from the day's demanding weight training. How good would it feel to release that tension slowly while a sexy little slideshow plays on his phone?
The ritual deepens, genuine and intimate, as he opens the "Sexxxy Babyboy" folder and thumbs through the older clips and hot photos with a racing heart and stiff disposition between his legs. The oil on the bedside now calling him more insistently as the ache turns into a warm throb low in his body.
The white noise wraps around him like a comforting blanket while he settles in deeper, ready for the night to unfold further in this private, sensual space.
He reaches for the sandalwood spray on the shelf, misting the air in slow arcs. Candle next, wick flickering to life under the match. He strikes another match for the rose incense stick, placing it in the holder as smoke curls upward, floral sweetness unfurling thick and heady. Wrapping the space in layers of scent that pulls him deeper into the ritualistic fantasy.
He unveils the mirror now, cloth tucked away with care, revealing the full-length reflection where he sometimes watches himself. Body bare and open, movements mirrored back intimate and unjudged.
But the centerpiece pulls his eye: phone propped in front of the mirror, slideshow already cycling through "Sexxxy Babyboy" images of you flickering soft: your power on the court, body glistening, that commanding presence drawing him in like a magnet.
He grabs the wooden chair and drags it in front of the mirror. Positions it just right: mirror reflecting the bed behind, phone propped up between, slideshow already cycling through. Eyes on the screen. The slideshow loops: you warming up, racket in hand, body loose but charged.
You stretch first. Arms overhead, torso twisting, the camera catching the moisture on your shirt, damp patches starting at the pits, spreading down the sides. You’re doing footwork drills now: quick steps, pivots sharp, your legs driving like pistons, quads bulging, calves flexing hard. Sweat beads on your forehead, a drop tracing down your temple, catching in the stubble along your jaw. The focus in your eyes, intense, unbreaking pulls him deeper into a trance-like state, your stare piercing the screen.
But the ass. Dios mío, the ass. It commands the frame, demands worship, a masterpiece of muscle and curve that makes fans lose their minds. He pauses the slideshow on a side shot: you mid-lunge, hips low, the shorts stretched tight across that ass shaped like two scoops of butter pecan ice cream. Round, caramel-kissed perfection, dimples winking at the top like they're teasing the world. The heft so full and inviting it's almost comical how they steal every scene. Like the court was built just to showcase this ass.
Fans call it juicy, a bubble butt supreme, ‘gran culo’ glory. He chuckles low, the phrases echoing in his head as he stares, the shape so flawlessly proportioned it's like nature sculpted it for flattery, for fantasies. For making anyone who sees it stop and scroll back twice, three times, lost in the hypnotic swell that promises power and softness all at once.
He rewinds again. Plays slow. Power surges through: you explode from the baseline, glutes clenching like twin engines firing, muscle rippling visible under the fabric. The thrust so forceful it sends a wave through the shorts, seams straining as if begging for mercy. Each clench of a cheek a demonstration in raw strength.
Fans thirst over it, calling it muscle bubble magic, perfect ass that could crush watermelons. He feels his breath hitch, the way those scoops flex and release, flex and release, like they're alive with energy. Built for endurance, for driving you forward with unyielding might. The kind of power that makes him imagine gripping them, feeling the steel under the velvet. The overabundance of muscle packed into such a tantalizing shape.
He pauses on a close-up frame now, the camera lingering low during a water break. Your shorts soaked through at the back, a dark stripe running straight down the cleft. Ass sweat bold and unapologetic, marking the fabric like a secret map.
He zooms in, breath catching at the sight. That stripe to him is so incredibly attractive. A testament to the heat building deep, blood surging strong through every vein. “Good blood flows to the extremities,” he thinks. He knows what it means.
Circulation pumping full, feeding those scoops with life, making them swell richer, rounder, ready. The sweat stripe gleams under lights, fabric clinging translucent in spots, outlining the curve like it's begging to be traced. He imagines the scent rising from it, salty, fertile. The essence of effort poured out. That stripe isn't just sweat. It's a promise.
He finds the serve clip next. You leap high for the toss, body arched back in perfect tension, legs driving upward with explosive power. The landing hits hard, impact rippling straight through your core, sending a visible, heavy bounce through the thick, glorious outline in your shorts. The resilient bulge bounces once, twice, the fabric lifting just enough to hint at the full, proud shape beneath. Before snapping back tight against the skin like it’s showing off.
He loops it endlessly: the way his manhood absorbs the shock, that playful, almost cartoonish heft. No compression shorts in sight. Swinging forward with each descent, juicy perfection that bobs like it’s daring you to stare longer. It’s like it knows exactly how ridiculous and irresistible it is. A bouncing mouthful and then some.
Comical in its sheer confidence, how something so commanding can move with such teasing weight. The head nudging visibly against the material on every rebound like it’s waving hello. Jumping around like it’s pulsing with pride, flattering in every frame.
It’s all making him lean closer, oil forgotten in his hand as he growls low inside, half-laughing at how unfairly blessed you are. What a vision!
Oil dips deeper now, finger coated slick. He rubs it slow between palms, warmth spreading. The slideshow cycles on, the outline of your ass or the bulge in your pants the star in every frame. Longing coils tight. He closes his eyes. His fantasy begins.
*
The room fades. White noise swells like a cosmic tide. In the dark, he steps forward, into steam, into shadow. A locker room forms around him. Dim lights. Echo of water running distant. Showerhead masking steps.
His eyes adjust. There it is your gym bag on the bench. Half-zipped. Dirty kit spilling out everywhere: shorts, briefs, socks. Ripe. Used. Scent hits faint. Sweat, effort, you.
He looks toward the sound of the shower running. You’re in there. Unaware.
Back to the bag. Shower. Bag. Shower.
“Just a sniff, right?” He thinks to himself.
Heart pounds. Wolf flares. He’ll have plenty of time to run away after, right? Does he have enough time?
Enough to get close, inhale that essence, taste the soaked fabric with your day’s effort, then slip away before you step out?
Shower. Bag. Shower. Bag.
He steps closer. His hand reaches, trembling. Scents are growing stronger. That salty, fertile calling.
All he knows is he shouldn’t.
But he wants to.
And at this point, he really must.