Preseason Aches Pt. 2

He stands at the water's edge, toes curling into cool, wet sand.  The ocean breathes in and out ahead of him, waves rolling gentle under the last light of day.  Salt air fills his lungs sharp and clean, a sting that feels like waking up.

He steps forward.  Cold water laps his ankles, then calves, then thighs.  The shock is immediate, delicious.  It climbs the heavy curve of his ass, brushes the underside of his balls, and makes his skin tighten everywhere at once.  When it reaches his waist, he dives.

The world goes quiet.  Water closes over his head, muffling everything.  He kicks hard, arms slicing long and clean, body remembering the old rhythm like muscle memory never left.  Olympic strokes come back effortless: kick, pull, breathe, glide, surface. His chest expands wide with each breath to the side, heavy pecs rising, nipples hardening fast in the chill.  The thicker waist twists for power, obliques firing, ass flexing with every dolphin kick that propels him deeper.

He swims out just past the break.  The waves lift and drop him in steady swells.  Salt burns the fresh scar along his jaw, the one from the accident earlier this year.  The crash replays sometimes in flashes: metal twisting, glass shattering, the sickening crack of bone.  Jaw wired shut for weeks after.  Liquids through a straw.  Speech slurred and painful.  Beard grown thick and wild to hide the swelling, the stitches, the mess of healing.  He couldn't open his mouth wide enough to eat, let alone kiss or taste skin.  Body bloated from meds and immobility, heavy in all the wrong places.  Desire deadened and buried under pain.

But now.

Now his muscular arms cut through water with authority. Legs drive strong from thighs rebuilt in the gym. His chest heaves full and free. The beard clings wet to his face, thick and dark, no longer hiding anything, just part of him.  Salt water beads in it, drips from the curl at his chin. The scar tingles under the current, alive, and healed enough to feel pleasure instead of pain.

He flips at a rock outcrop, pushes off hard, explodes forward in a burst of speed.  Body glides sleek and powerful.  He’s still got it, that good feel for the water, which streams over his back, traces down the ridges of his spine, and slips between his cheeks.  Every nerve sings.  Lungs expanding deeper than they have in years.  Heart pounding steady, strong.

He slows near the deeper blue and rolls onto his back, floating.  Stars prick the darkening sky in Northland of Aotearoa.  Waves rock him gently. His cock stirs at last, thick and slow in the cold, blood rushing south as the body remembers what it's built for.  Desire flickers alive after so long asleep.

He closes his eyes.  Gratitude hits sudden and fierce.  Tears mix with salt water on his lashes.  The accident took so much out of him.  Wired shut, trapped in a body that felt foreign and broken.  Months of recovery, slow and brutal.  Beard grown to hide the damage.  Weight gained, then fought back inch by inch in the gym.  Nights spent crying, wondering if he'd ever feel like himself again.

But here he is. Floating. Strong. Whole.

He laughs quiet into the night, a low sound only the ocean hears.  After one heavy exhale he kicks back toward shore with steady strokes.  His body cutting clean through the water one last time.

He emerges dripping, moonlight silver on his wet skin.  Beard heavy with salt.  He looks so manly here.  Intimidating in his element.  Chest rising full. Cock swinging thick between powerful thighs.

The body is back.

*

He walks the short path from the beach back to his friend’s bach, sand still clinging to his feet, the cool evening breeze raising goosebumps across his damp skin.  The little holiday home sits quiet among behind the dune, windows glowing soft from inside.   All the rooms are taken by the family members so he’s in a tent this time.

His spot is the aqua tent pitched on the grass out back, zipper half open, air mattress waiting.  He slips into the main house first, keeping quiet so he doesn’t wake anyone, and heads for the bathroom.

The shower starts hot immediately.  Steam rises fast, fogging the small mirror, turning the tiny space into a warm cocoon.  He steps under the spray and lets the water pound his shoulders, washing away the ocean salt in rivulets that run down his chest.  Soap lathers thick in his palms.

He starts slow, almost reverent, hands gliding over the fuller waist he has learned to love.  No longer the narrow taper of his twenties.  Now it's solid, lived-in, carrying the weight of survival and strength.  Fingers trace the faint stretch marks from recovery, the subtle softness over hard muscle.  He accepts it all.  This body is richer now, more manly.  Sexier in its maturity.

He soaps his chest next, palms circling heavy pecs, thumbs brushing nipples that tighten instantly under the touch.  Sensitive these days, more than they used to be.  A gift from the hormonal chaos of healing.  He smiles to himself mischievously.  He lingers there, feeling the weight of them, the way they move when he breathes deep.  

Beard comes last.  He deliberately grew it long during recovery from the accident to hide the swelling and stitches.  He massages shampoo into it, Herbal Essences roses and strawberries filling the steam with sweet, heady scent.  His hair has grown back thicker too, post-illness, curls heavy and soft under his fingers.  He rinses slow, watching suds swirl down the drain.

Out of the shower, he towels dry with care.  He’s delicate with how he handles himself.  As if his body is a fragile freight package.  Skin still warm, he opens the little jar of manuka honey moisturizer.  It smells Oshun golden, thick and fragrant. He smooths it over every inch: jaw scar first, fingers gentle on the line that once made him avoid mirrors.

Then chest, waist, thighs, and ass.  The honey scent clings warm and sweet, mixing with lingering rose from his hair.  He works it in like a ritual, soothing, celebratory.  This body fought back from the crash, from wires and pain and bloating.  It deserves touch.  It deserves pleasure.  Deserves to feel good under the touch of his own hands.

Stepping into the kitchen now he heats some bone broth, a simple habit from his athlete days. Bowl warm in his palms, he sips standing at the table, staring out the dark window at the moonlit sea.  In this moment he’s just a creature of habit, sharing a calming routine moment to set his nervous system right before bed.  Nourishment to end the day, just like he started it.

He pulls on grey sweatpants that hug the fuller waist and round ass just right.  A white tank clings to his chest, nipples faint shadows under thin cotton.  He crawls onto the air mattress in the aqua tent, sheets cool against warm skin, evening breeze drifting through the tent flap.

With his phone in his hand, there’s one last ritual before sleep.  He opens Instagram quietly, scrolls to your profile.  No new stories tonight.  Just the same training clips from yesterday. Muscle flexing, sweat shining, that focused look he loves, especially when serving.  The heart quickens.  So much for all those calming, pre-bed activities.  All thrown out the proverbial tent window with a few taps on the screen.  He knows he’s lingering longer than he should, thumb hovering, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Through the hectic noise he feels inside, he holds onto a quiet confession: this crush lit the flame.  When everything felt lost: jaw wired, body foreign, desire dead, thinking of you pushed him.  Inspired him to fight harder in physio, lift heavier in the gym, heal not just to survive but to become someone worthy of wanting, of being wanted.

He sets the phone face-down.  Whispers a short prayer into the dark.  Thanking God for the body, for the strength, and for his desire returning.  Breeze cools his skin.  Sheets settle around him.

Sleep drifts close, calm and deep.

*

At some point during the night, the zipper rasps.  Slow.  Deliberate.  Like a secret being undone.

He doesn’t move.  Eyes stay closed, breath steady, but every nerve wakes sharp.  The sound is real, isn’t it?  Or is this that dream again?  The one that’s visited him since recovery began, since the crush took root and refused to let go.

You crawl in and your musk floods the tent.

That thick, fertile, post-training salt and skin.  The scent that lives in his late-night scrolls.  It floods the small space, wraps around him like heat from a forge.  The air mattress dips under your weight, slow shift that presses close behind him.  Body heat radiates before touch even lands.  Your broad chest to his back, thighs slotting against his, lips scraping soft at the nape of his neck as you settle in.

He keeps “asleep,” breath catching only slightly, body responding instinctive.  Ass arching back just enough to meet the grind of your hips.  Your cock, thick and hard, slides between his cheeks through thin sweatpants fabric, pre-cum already soaking through in warm streaks.  The pressure is deliberate, teasing, your head nudging his hole, fabric dragging slick, promising more.

Your hand hovers over his hip first, fingers ghosting skin where tank has ridden up.  Then it slides upward, palm warm and callused, covering his mouth in a gentle but firm hold.  Fingers spreading to seal his sleeping lips, thumb brushing his bearded square jaw.  The touch is possessive, anchoring, silencing any sound before it starts.

He moans into your palm softly, muffled, the first real giveaway.  Eyes open in the haze, moonlight catching your beard-shadowed face above him, eyes dark and hungry, locked on his.

Recognition floods him. Shock at first.  Followed by relief.  Now desire.

Before the moan can grow, your hand clamps tighter, crushing the sound into vibration against your skin, holding him quiet, holding him yours.  Your cock presses hotter now, head pushing at the fabric barrier, seeking entry.

The dream is real.

And it’s only just beginning.

Preseason Aches

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?