The house settles like it always does after midnight on New Year's Eve in La Huerta. A gentle fade, the echoes of laughter lingering in the air like the faint smoke from the fireworks over Los Peligros. You've played your part all night: the twelve grapes shoved in your mouth at the clock's chimes, one for each month, the family cheering when you nearly choke on the tenth grape like every year.
Your mother's turrón sliced thin on the plate, almond sweetness still coating your tongue. Your father's cava poured generously, bubbles fizzing as everyone toasts "feliz año nuevo" with clinking glasses and back-slaps. Siblings teasing about resolutions.
Yours is always the same, unspoken: more wins, less noise. The fireworks crackle in the distance, red and gold blooming against the black sky. The neighborhood alive with distant cheers.
It's warm, familiar, the kind of night that grounds you. But tonight, something pulls at the edges. A low hum under your skin. An anticipation you can't quite name. You hug your mother, kiss her cheek, tell your father goodnight. They know the drill; preseason waits for no holiday. "Mañana entrenamiento," you say, and they nod, no arguments.
The stairs creak under your feet as you climb, each step loosening the day's hold. Your body aches in that good, earned way. Quads burning from the morning sprints, shoulders knotted from the heavy serves, core throbbing like a drum from the endless planks and twists. Preseason is brutal, but it's yours.
The door to your room shuts behind you, lock turning with a soft click. Darkness wraps around you, broken only by the faint lamp’s glow. You stand there for a moment, breathing, the house quiet now except for the distant murmur of the TV downstairs.
You undress slowly, starting with the shirt. It resists just enough, damp with the night’s heat, before giving way and baring skin still marked by effort. Your chest rises and falls, muscle carved by repetition, by discipline.
The pants and underwear follow, dragged down your legs, cool air skating over warm skin. Naked now, you pause.
You look in the mirror, not to admire but to take stock. To recognize what’s been built. The body looking back at you feels familiar in the way a well-worn racket does. An extension, not an ornament. Your shoulders sit easy and wide, arms relaxed but alive, forearms still carrying the echo of impact and spin. There’s a quiet heat in your skin, a sheen that speaks of work rather than display.
Your chest rises slowly as you breathe. Strong, open, marked by effort. Every line has purpose. You turn slightly, watching ripped muscles respond without thought, how control lives so close to power inside you. Narrow waist, hips loose and ready, legs dense with stored movement. Thighs shaped by acceleration, calves by repetition. Nothing wasted. Nothing accidental. All earned.
You meet your own eyes. Steady. Dark. Focused. There’s pride there, yes, but it’s grounded. The kind that comes from knowing exactly what your body can do, and trusting it to perform under pressure. Oh yes, the pressure. Millions on the line. Literally and figuratively. Brands and sponsorship deals. Bonuses. Expectations. But above all this noise it’s the love of the game that drives you really. The insatiable appetite to achieve more.
The ache from training still hums beneath the surface, low and persistent, reminding you that discipline doesn’t dampen desire but concentrates it.
You stand there for a moment longer, letting the silence hold you. The body is tuned. Primed. Held deliberately on the edge. And you allow yourself the quiet satisfaction of knowing it’s yours. This body you honed like a weapon? It’s yours. This body you built with a team of expensive experts, is yours.
The room goes quiet in that way that makes every breath feel loud, every pulse noticeable. The fatigue from training hasn’t left, it’s simply changed its address. What was ache now becomes pressure, a low, insistent weight that gathers and holds.
Preseason has done this to you. All that restraint, all that stored heat, kept coiled and waiting. It sharpens everything, makes the body feel overfull, primed, held deliberately on the edge of release. Not yet. Not here. The court comes first.
And the musk… my god, the musk. It's always there, heavy and potent, regenerating no matter how many showers you take. Clean or dirty, it announces you: a thick, masculine scent of sweat and skin and raw fertility, the kind that fills a room like an unspoken claim. You breathe it in now, your own aroma wrapping around you, stirring the ache deeper. It's insistent, recycling itself. Earthy, salty, with that undercurrent of virility that makes your cock twitch just from scent alone.
You're one of the youngest, hottest athletes in the world—22, built like a god, dark hair tousled, bronzed skin glowing even in the lowest light, powerful thighs and arms that could devastatingly crush or carefully caress in equal measure. Desirable as fuck, but right now, alone, and all in for this moment.
You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand. Thumb hovers over the screen. Heart drops when you see it: the ring around his profile. Fresh. Waiting. Pulse spikes, dick stirring already, thickening against your thigh. You don't tap it directly. Too risky. Instead, you switch to the third-party app—the one you've used for a while now. The one that lets you watch without a trace. Safe. Secret. Discreet. The little ritual of caution sends a thrill through you every time, like you're stealing something precious, forbidden.
The story loads.
And there he is.
The tent bathes him in that soft aqua light, almost baby blue, the color you know he loves on you. He's laying on an air mattress, white tank stretched tight across his hairy chest, arm cocked behind his head so the fabric pulls up just enough to show a strip of skin and the trail of hair leading down his chest. Beard full and perfect, eyes looking straight into the camera like he's staring right at you. Legs up, ankles crossed, soles of his feet on full display. Inviting, playful, the arches curving like they were made for fun. Grey sweatpants low on his hips, the curve of his ass subtle but impossible to miss, like he positioned himself exactly for this angle.
The caption: “Good morning!” with the tent emoji, a tree, a heart, and the kissy face.
The image has you in a chokehold. The best kind. You zoom in—slow, deliberate—on his chest first. The way the tank clings, nipples just visible under the fabric, soft and waiting. Then lower: the waistband of the sweatpants riding low, the promise of what's underneath—pink, hairless, ready. Then the feet again—soles, toes, the casual way he's offered them up like a gift. You can almost smell the cool tent air, slightly damp, mixed with his morning musk. That potent fertile scent mirroring your own but sweeter, warmer, inviting you in.
Your breath hitches. Dick hardens more now, skin gliding back as you palm yourself through nothing. Naked, exposed in your own room. You adjust yourself, hand diving down, cupping your own balls, shifting your cock to relieve the ache. They're heavy, full, throbbing with that banked testosterone, the retention making every touch electric.
Absentmindedly, your hand comes back up, and you sniff it — deep, instinctive — the musk hits you hard, your own fertile scent mixed with the first hint of pre-cum. It’s salty and potent, regenerating in the air like a promise. Your own raw scent makes you throb harder, balls tightening, the ache deepening like they're begging to spill.
You feel it—body and imagination syncing, brainwaves and the pulse in your hand riding the same wave toward him. Begging you to step in there. To peel down those grey sweatpants, reveal that pink hairless pucker, always ready at a moment’s notice. And that's just the ass. Not even imagining the cock yet, or better yet, those pendulous pecs, nay, tits! You imagine his chest moving like tits when getting railed, the nipples swelling in your mouth, color shifting from fluffy pink to deep crimson as his arousal builds.
You throw yourself onto your bed. The bedroom fades. The fantasy begins.
*
You're stepping through the screen now. His tent flap parting under your fingers. The zipper rasps slow and deliberate in the quiet night, each tooth clicking open like a promise, cool air rushing in. Your hand trembles just a little as you pull it all the way down, the canvas falling away to reveal him there, curled on his side in the dim aqua glow, asleep or pretending to be, his body a landscape of invitation under the thin sheet that's slipped low on his hips.
He's on that honey-yellow pillow, the one you recognize from his Instagram stories. And his head is turned slightly toward you, beard shadowing his jaw like a dark invitation against the soft fabric. His full lips parted in shallow, rhythmic breaths that lift that massive chest — broad as a battlefield, etched with power from endless heavy lifts and swims.
Yet here now, utterly defenseless in sleep, or feigning it, the thin white tank clings damp and sheer to his chest, the fabric so worn and translucent it might as well be invisible, revealing the swell of his pecs in perfect outline, those thick slabs rising and falling with each slow breath, quivering faintly under the strain of their own weight.
Through the cotton, his nipples stand out similar to the way he does: shamelessly. Plush pink peaks, relaxed yet swollen, pressing against the fabric like they're already aching for a mouth. Begging for your teeth to graze them through the cloth first, then bare.
His arm drapes loosely over his flank. The bicep, a cannon of muscle that could hoist you effortlessly, now slack in surrender. Exposing the deep, shadowed pit, damp and musky, a cavern of raw male scent that draws you in like a drug, promising the full taste of salt and heat.
Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, stretched taut over the heavy curve of his ass. Heat radiating through the cotton like a low burn, iron muscle slack in sleep. One thigh hooked high under the tangled sheet, the motion pulling everything tighter, warmer, closer.
The musk hangs thick in the tent air. His sweet and deep, yours sharp and urgent, blending into something overripe, ready to spill. His soles arch up at the mattress edge, pale and smooth, toes loose, undersides exposed like a quiet dare for your hands to press in while he lies there. All that power finally still, waiting for you to break it open with your need.
The air mattress sighs as you crawl closer, your cock throbbing hard now, skin slick with pre-cum, balls heavy and aching from the retention, musk thick in the small space—his mixing with yours, fertile and insistent. You sidle up behind him, body radiating heat, your chest brushing his back, hand hovering over the curve of his hip, ready to pull him close, to wake him with your mouth on that exposed nipple or your cock pressing against his ass.
Will he stir? Eyes fluttering open to find you there, hard and hungry? Or will he pretend a little longer, letting you take what we both know you've been craving?