Gold ship

You’re already at the track, clipboard in hand, watching the early mist burn off the turf under the morning sun. Quiet. Peaceful. Almost enough to make you forget what it’s like when he finally shows up.

Then you hear it — that familiar rhythm. The soft slap of boots on pavement. The low, cocky whistle that echoes just before his voice does.

“Ooh, you’re early today. Lookin’ real serious over there, Coach.”

You glance up just in time to see him approaching — and even fully dressed, Gold Ship manages to stand out like a walking event poster. Slim-fit tracksuit zipped just enough to hint at the tight black compression shirt clinging to his chest underneath. Sleeves pulled up, exposing thick forearms laced with veins. Pants tailored so tight across his thighs it’s a miracle the seams don’t give out when he moves.

He swings his duffel bag over one shoulder, hips shifting lazily as he closes the distance between you, eyeing you up and down with that usual smug curve tugging at the edge of his lips.

When he stops beside you, he’s close — closer than he needs to be. Heat rolling off him. The scent of clean sweat, synthetic fabric, faint cologne, and something sharper underneath — like the lingering edge of a rut not quite cooled off.

“You gonna keep staring at my legs like that, or are we actually training today?”

He leans in a little, tilting his head as if pretending to read your notes over your shoulder — even though his height means his chest brushes your arm, and his voice is practically in your ear.

“Mm… new sprint intervals? You tryna kill me, or just wanna see me panting all sweaty for you, good boy?”

He lets that linger a beat longer than necessary, then leans back, stretching casually — arms overhead, track jacket riding up just enough to show the sharp lines of his abs and that soft, sweaty happy trail dipping below the hem of his compression shirt.

His bulge shifts slightly as he rolls his hips to loosen up, clearly enjoying the way your eyes follow the motion.

“Well? You gonna blow the whistle, or should I start doing laps around your brain first?”

The stable doors creak open slowly, and even before you step inside, you feel it — a wave of humid, heavy air rolling over your skin like a living thing. Thick with heat, sweat, musk, and something sharper beneath: rut. The scent clings to the air like steam, earthy and intoxicating. Your skin prickles from it. Your gut tightens. You already know who's here.

You hear it first — the thud of heavy footsteps echoing across concrete and dirt, slow and deliberate. Each step like a statement: he’s big, he’s close, and he knows you’re here.

Then he appears around the corner — and even though you've seen him a hundred times before, you stop breathing anyway.

Gold Ship is shirtless, glistening with sweat. His chest rises and falls with a slow, deliberate rhythm, deep enough that you can hear the breath leave him. His body is massive, carved from power — veiny thighs flex with every step, muscles twitching like coiled springs under smooth skin. His shorts are tight. Dangerously tight. The kind of tight that wasn’t made to hold someone like him. His bulge is huge — prominent, pulsing, outlined with no shame whatsoever.

But what always gets you — more than the size, the heat, the scent — is that look in his eyes when he sees you.

That soft, slow-burning hunger. That crooked grin. That way he looks down at you like you’re the reason he exists.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stops in front of you, arms loose at his sides, body radiating heat like a furnace. His thick happy trail is darkened with sweat, leading down into the waistband that barely clings to his hips. When he speaks, it’s in a voice just low enough to make your knees weak.

“Took you long enough.”

He steps closer. You feel the heat radiating off his chest. His bulge is now inches from your stomach. It pulses slightly. His thighs twitch. He knows you’re looking — and he loves it.

“You smell good today… better than usual.”

His voice drips with teasing affection, husky from breath control, from heat, from need. Then his hand rises — thick fingers brushing beneath your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his.

“You really are my good boy, huh?” His smile widens when he sees you flinch at the praise. He leans in, slow, lips brushing your ear. “Say it back.”

A beat passes. Then another. His other hand slides behind his back — and with casual, shameless pride, he pulls something from his waistband.

It’s a used condom. Knotted. Heavy. Still warm.

He holds it between two fingers, dangling it in front of you like a gift. “Had a little... practice session. Couldn’t stop thinking about your voice. Your hands. Your scent. You’re the only one who makes me like this. You should be proud of yourself.”

He tosses it gently toward your feet with a soft slap of latex and weight.

Then he leans down again, lips just above yours. “Now… wanna help me make another one?”

You barely get two steps into the stable before you hear that heavy thud of muscle-packed footsteps. You know that sound. You’ve trained with it. You’ve learned to brace for it. But it still hits you every time — the sheer weight of him, like the world shifts just a little when he walks in.

Then you see him: Gold Ship, shirtless again — of course — stretching in front of the mirror like he doesn’t know you’re watching. Or maybe because he knows you’re watching.

His back is wide enough to block out half the hallway. His legs are pure overkill — bulging quads, thick veins, power in every twitch. And those shorts? Painted on. Every part of him strains against fabric, including the part he seems most proud of.

He catches your eyes in the mirror and grins — wide, cocky, casual.

“Yo, Trainer~ Didn’t hear you come in. You look shorter today. Or maybe I’m just lookin’ extra huge.”

He turns and strides over to you without breaking eye contact. His shadow hits first. Then his chest. Then the full wall of him — all 9 feet and change, glistening, smug, towering.

standing this close to him? You feel pocket-sized. His abs line up with your eye level. His bulge presses near your stomach. His thighs are as wide as your torso. And his scent — thick, musky, just post-workout and borderline heat — wraps around you like steam.

He leans down just a bit, one hand bracing on the wall above your head, the other tugging his waistband just enough to flash that heavy happy trail and a hint of dense, dark pubes peeking above the curve of his bulge.

“You gonna keep staring, good boy? Or do I gotta flex and give you something to really drool over?”

Then, just casually, he lifts one thigh — muscle flexing hard — and props it on a nearby bench. The effect is immediate: his quad bulges right in your face, veiny, sweat-slicked, warm.

“Bet your whole head could fit between my legs, huh? Wanna test the theory later?”

He winks, then laughs — a deep, vibrating sound that hits you in your chest.

“C’mon, Coach. Let’s get training started before I start leaking again.”

The track's quiet again, save for Gold Ship’s heavy breathing and the slow crunch of his boots on the turf as he walks back toward you. His cooldown jog’s over — but the heat in his body clearly isn’t.

His chest rises and falls under his tight shirt, soaked in sweat and clinging to him like it was painted on. You’re already writing down his times when you hear the familiar stretch of fabric and the pop of seams.

You glance up — just in time to watch him grab the hem of his shirt and peel it up over his abs. Every muscle shifts and flexes with the motion. The shirt rolls off in one smooth motion, flung lazily over his shoulder. Underneath, his skin gleams in the sun — hot, flushed, slick.

He wipes the back of his hand across his jaw, sweat dripping from his silver bangs. Then he walks straight toward you, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on yours.

You don't have time to react when he stops right in front of you — close. Too close. His bare chest presses softly into your side, damp and burning with post-run heat. His arm brushes yours. His scent hits hard: warm sweat, breathless exertion, faint cologne, and the natural musk he always carries, thickened from the run.

“Did good today, huh?”

He tilts his head, voice low, a little breathless but still cocky. A drop of sweat slides down his neck and traces the dip of his chest.

“You keep pushing me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like seeing me all flushed and dripping.”

He doesn’t move away — if anything, he leans in more. The press of his body is firm, full. You can feel the difference in size without even looking — the way his chest rises just above your shoulder, how his mass seems to wrap around your space with casual ease.

Then you feel his bulge shift slightly as he adjusts his stance, the motion deliberate. He’s still in his tight compression shorts — and they do very little to hide just how much of him there is.

He exhales softly through his nose, lips near your ear now.

“Bet you like this view more than the stopwatch, huh, good boy?”

He grins, voice softer now, like it’s meant just for you.

“You gonna write that down in your notes too?”

The track is nearly silent now. Just the faint whirr of wind across turf, the buzz of cicadas, the far-off sound of birds. You’re standing near the edge of the field, clipboard in hand, mentally reviewing Gold Ship’s run. You’ve seen him finish dozens of races, but something about today lingers. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s him.

Your focus is broken by the crunch of boots behind you. Steady, heavy, confident. You don’t even need to turn around.

“Coach~”

His voice is smooth and slow — just a little winded from the sprint, just enough husk to feel warm in your chest. You turn halfway, and there he is, wiping his neck with the hem of his shirt — or rather, the skin-tight compression top barely holding back his chest and abs.

The fabric rides up with every motion, revealing more of that hard-cut stomach, the happy trail glistening with sweat, and the deep grooves carved into his hips from a body built to dominate. He lets the shirt drop but doesn’t tug it down. It sticks. Rides high. He doesn’t care. He likes when you look.

He stops beside you — too close, as always. The heat rolls off him. So does the scent: thick from the run, deeper from the man. Your breath catches before you realize it.

“Good boy, waiting on me like that. You’re too responsible for your own good.”

He chuckles softly, and his hand comes down — big, warm, landing casually on your lower back. Familiar. Heavy. But then… it slides lower.*

Fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, brushing your waistband. Then his palm flattens, slides down, and cups one side of your ass like it belongs to him. His thumb presses into the curve gently. Then not so gently.

You freeze — but he doesn’t.

His other hand joins the first. Both palms now resting, gripping, adjusting his stance as he presses both hands full against your butt. His fingers flex. Squeeze. Shift. One thumb draws slow circles. The other presses in just enough to make your hips twitch.

“Damn…” His voice is closer now — right behind your ear, breath thick and heavy, words slurring into a low growl. “Always figured it was tight under there. But this?”

Another firm squeeze — like he’s testing your shape. Like he’s measuring it for later. He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t ask. Just owns it, palms kneading, arms crowding around you like he’s boxing you in.

You hear the rustle of his clothes as he shifts, stepping closer — pressing his body flush against your back, chest to shoulder, hips to hips. You feel the heat of his abs slide against your spine. His bulge — heavy, barely restrained by tight fabric — settles just above your ass. You can feel it. The weight. The pulse. His thighs press to either side of yours, legs twice as thick, flexing every time he breathes.

He sighs — dramatic, lazy — and leans forward until his cheek brushes yours.

“I should’ve done this days ago.”

Another squeeze. Deeper. Slower. You hear him exhale through his nose, like he’s been holding this back for far too long.

“You gonna stop me, good boy?” His voice is calm. Patient. But not hesitant.

“Didn’t think so.”

He lets one hand trail back up to your waist… but the other stays. Possessive. Pressing. Claiming.

“This part of you’s mine now.”

The sun’s low by the time your session wraps. The track’s empty now, the warm orange light stretching long shadows across the turf. You’ve got notes in hand, stopwatch clipped to your lanyard, and sweat still clinging to the collar of your shirt. It’s been a long day. Gold Ship ran hard. For once, you expected him to be tired.

But when you turn toward the benches, he’s not even sitting. He’s standing beside you. Closer than before.

Still shirtless. Still massive. His silver hair clings to his temple, sweat tracing slow paths down his neck, over the steep curve of his chest. The air between you is hot and heavy, charged — not just from the training.

You feel the heat before you feel the touch: one broad, calloused hand resting low on your back. Palm flat. Fingers spread slightly — possessive. The kind of contact that says he’s not asking for permission.

You glance up to say something — maybe a warning, maybe a question — but his eyes catch yours. And whatever you were going to say burns up in your throat.

There’s no smirk this time. No joke. Just a slow, hungry look.

“You’ve been watching me this whole session.”

It’s not a question. It’s a fact. He leans in, his voice a slow, warm pulse at your ear. “Think I didn’t notice? How your eyes always drop when I stretch? When I roll my hips? How you grip that stopwatch tighter when I run past?”

He moves behind you, slowly. The hand on your back slides down — just enough. His entire frame presses into yours, chest to your shoulders, hips against your lower back. His size swallows yours completely, surrounding you in heat, scent, and solid weight. You feel his breath on your neck. His body is damp and twitching with post-run energy. Still charged.

Then you feel his other hand — not tentative, not gentle. Confident. Direct. It presses to your lower back, then dips… low… fingers sliding past your waistband from behind, dragging along the skin beneath. He’s inside your pants. Not rushing. Not teasing.

“Mm… soft,” he murmurs, almost distracted — like he’s studying you with his palm, mapping you by touch. “Better than I imagined. And I’ve imagined it a lot.”

His hand flexes, gripping your ass with slow, possessive pressure. Not squeezing to shock you — holding you like something he owns. Like something he waited for.

“You don’t stop me,” he says quietly, voice firmer now. “Every time I touch you, you freeze… but you don’t move away. You’re always so still. Like you want me to keep going.”

His fingers shift slightly inside your waistband, moving just enough to make your breath catch.

“That right, good boy?”

There’s heat behind the words, but not cruelty. Not mockery. It’s real. Intimate. And he leans in closer — chest pressed to your back, cock resting against the curve of your ass through both layers of clothing, thick and already firm.

“You keep showing up. You push me hard. You stare. You write down my stats like you’re memorizing how to breed me.”

A soft laugh escapes him — amused, breathless, slightly feral.

“You want this. Don’t you?”

He shifts his hips against you, slow and deliberate. Just once. Enough to make you feel how serious he is — and how ready.

You weren’t expecting him to be here. The breeding stables were supposed to be locked — reserved, cleaned, scheduled. You were just cutting through on your way to the equipment shed, clipboard in hand, mind elsewhere.

But the second the door swings open, the air punches you in the chest. Hot. Wet. Musky.

It smells like him.

Heavy, sweat-slicked, heat-ridden. It clings to everything — the walls, the floor, your clothes. The scent is unmistakable. You freeze.

The sounds hit next: gasping, panting, the deep grunt of someone too far gone to care who hears. Then the rhythmic slap of skin on synthetic leather. You already know what’s happening. But it's not until you step forward — drawn by morbid curiosity, or something darker — that you see it.

Gold Ship. All 9’1” of him, naked from the waist down. His compression shirt rolled up over his abs. Muscles flexing, thighs twitching. He’s rutting into the mound like a beast — full hips grinding forward in hard, possessive thrusts. Loud. Shameless. Lost in it.

But it’s not the act that stuns you.

It’s the mound itself.

There — stretched across the padded top — is a printed image. A photo. Your face. A blown-up snapshot, half-creased, clearly used often. Your eyes frozen mid-laugh. A picture he must have stolen when you weren’t paying attention.

And he’s fucking it like he can’t breathe without it.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. All you can do is stare as his massive body flexes and bucks, thick thighs rippling, cock buried deep into the artificial mount — a heavy slap of skin echoing with every thrust.

His voice breaks through the sound, ragged and low:

“F-fuck… Trainer… f-fuck—“

He doesn’t even know you’re there.

Not until your foot scrapes the ground — too loud in the silence between thrusts.

He jerks halfway upright, hips stalling, head snapping to the side. Sweat drips from his jawline. His eyes are wide — not with guilt. Not even shame. Just shock.

Then his expression shifts — slowly, dangerously — to a grin.

“…You came.”

He doesn’t move off the mount. He just leans forward on one elbow, hips still flush to the base, breathing hard, flushed, soaked. He’s leaking — a mess between his legs and the mount. And he doesn’t cover it. Doesn’t apologize. He just watches you.

“Guess I should’ve locked the door, huh?”

He runs a hand through his damp hair, glancing down at your printed face beneath him.

“You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”

Then he thrusts again — slow. Deliberate. Still staring at you.

“But since you’re here…”

He groans through clenched teeth, pressing his hips tight, his cock twitching inside the mound.

“You might as well see how much I need you.”

The sun filters in slow through the high stable window, gold light crawling across sweat-stained sheets and the half-dressed mess of bodies tangled beneath them. The air is warm, still tinged with the scent of last night — salt, heat, musk, skin. The kind of scent that clings to your lungs, even when you're breathing slowly.

Gold Ship is beneath you, flat on his back — his chest bare, rising and falling in that calm rhythm he rarely allows himself. One arm bent behind his head. The other resting lazily across your lower back, big palm flat against your skin like a silent claim.

His body is massive beneath yours — a furnace of muscle and scent and slow, grounding heat. You’re stretched out across him like a blanket, your head against his chest, one leg tucked between his impossibly thick thighs. His skin is still slightly damp, but not from sweat anymore. Just warmth. Lingering comfort.

He shifts a little, stretching under you. Veins twitch subtly along his arms, chest flexing beneath your cheek. And then that voice — rough with sleep, a little hoarse from the sounds he made the night before — cuts through the morning stillness.

“You’re still here…”

It’s not a question. More like a realization. A quiet one. You feel his fingers drag slowly up your back, then down again, splaying wide at your waist like he’s mapping you out.

“Thought you’d be gone before I woke up.”

You feel his hips shift slightly under you. Even lying down, his size is overwhelming — the rise of his abs, the width of his chest, the subtle bulge pressing against your thigh despite the night being over. Still half-hard. Still wanting.

He turns his head, nose brushing your temple. Then you hear that slow, familiar grin creep into his voice.

“Or maybe you just liked sleeping on me. Can’t blame you. Big, warm, full of... last night.”

He chuckles — a low, chesty sound you feel before you hear. You shift slightly, and his arm tightens around you just a little. Not possessive. Protective. But only barely.

“You’re not sore, are you?”

You don’t answer right away. His fingers trail up your spine, light, lazy, barely-there. And then you feel him inhale — deep. Purposeful.

“Still smell like me.” He sounds pleased. More than pleased.

“Good boy.”

He says it low and slow — praise curled around something heavier, something primal that never really left with the sunrise. One hand slips lower, just beneath the blanket, pressing gently at the curve of your ass. Not to grope. Not yet.

Just to hold. To remind you: he remembers exactly where he left himself last night.

“You gonna stay like this a little longer?” His voice is soft now. More serious. “Or do I need to flip you and go for round two?”

The light coming in through the stable window is pale, early, and still. It spills across tangled sheets and the soft rise and fall of a massive chest under your cheek.

Gold Ship hasn’t moved much. He never really does, after. Even someone as chaotic and full of fire as him turns still in the quiet after everything’s been said with bodies. He lays there, one arm cradling the back of your shoulders, the other loose across the mattress. His skin is warm, marked with fading flush, small bruises, and your scent still clinging to the crook of his neck.

He’s awake. You can feel it in his breath. Slower, deeper than sleep. Not relaxed — more like... restrained.

He shifts a little beneath you. Just a small adjustment, so your head rests closer to his heart. His hand moves, slow and careful, fingers brushing up and down your spine like he’s not sure if he’s still allowed to.

Then, finally — softly, like he’s breaking his own silence:

“So…”

He swallows. You feel the movement, deep in his chest.

“What are we now?”

There’s no cocky tone in his voice. No teasing edge. Just a tight sincerity — like the question’s been sitting heavy on his chest for hours and this is the first time he’s dared to ask it.

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares at the ceiling. One hand squeezes your waist, grounding himself in the contact. His voice stays low, quiet.

“Was last night just… because of my heat? Because I got desperate? Or because you…”

He trails off, breath catching slightly. For someone so dominant, so powerful, this moment is naked. Raw.

He finally turns his head toward you, golden eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“You don’t gotta lie. I just… need to know. Because if it didn’t mean anything to you, I’ll try to — I’ll back off.”

His voice falters for just a second — and then steadies, but you can feel the strain under it.

“But if it did mean something… if I’m not just your favorite dumb, heat-horny muscleboy…”

He lifts his hand to brush your hair back, gentle, reverent — like touching you still feels unreal.

“Then I want to know. I want to hear it. 'Cause I want more.”

He shifts again beneath you, his arms now holding you tighter — as if afraid that not getting an answer will make you leave.

“I don’t want just one night, Trainer.” “I want to be yours.”

He’s sitting on the bench, post-shower — damp towel slung low around his hips, nothing else. His hair’s still wet, loose around his shoulders. Steam rises off his skin in the cool air of the empty locker room, catching the light and tracing the map of veins that run like rivers across his arms, chest… and down those impossibly thick thighs.

His legs are spread wide, relaxed, sprawling. One boot planted on the tile, the other leg propped slightly up on a bag, putting the full mass of his thigh on display. The definition is unreal. Carved muscle bulging out with casual force, twitching just from the way he shifts his weight. Veins trace the surface like lightning — thick, raised, pulsing slowly under his sweat-warmed skin.

You’re kneeling between them.

Not because he told you to. Not because you’re supposed to. But because you need to. Just being close to them makes your pulse quicken. The sheer weight of them, the size, the heat — it’s magnetic.

Your hands move almost reverently over his quads, barely able to wrap around the sides. Your thumbs trace the deep groove where his outer thigh meets the curve of his hip, and he exhales — low, deep, pleased.

He looks down at you, elbow resting on the bench behind him, voice smooth and low.

“You just can’t help yourself, huh?”

You don’t answer. Just lean in closer, pressing your lips softly to the firm surface of his thigh — warm, firm, slightly damp with post-shower heat. You kiss again. Slower this time. Lingering. Tracing your mouth along the muscle like you’re memorizing it.

You hear him laugh — not cruel, but smug, affectionate, satisfied.

“Always knew you’d end up here.”

His hand slides gently over the back of your neck, fingers curling just slightly in your hair, grounding you as you work. You mouth at his leg more urgently now, kissing along the veins, dragging your lips over every twitch, every flex.

He shifts — just a bit — and you feel the weight of his other leg move beside you. A subtle reminder of how easily he could trap you between them. Hold you in place. Crush you if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. He lets you worship. Because he wants you to.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, palm heavy on your head now. “Good boy. You like these legs, don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. His grip keeps your head still as you keep kissing, licking, pressing your face against the thick warmth of his thigh.

“Worked ‘em just for you. Every rep, every run, every flex... you’ve been watchin’. I saw it.”

He spreads his legs wider. His cock shifts beneath the towel, half-hard and heavy. But he doesn’t guide you there. Not yet. He wants you on the legs. He wants you devoted. Desperate.

“C’mon, don’t stop now. You’re doin’ so good for me. My good boy…”

His tone dips lower, more intimate, more dangerous. You feel his thigh twitch against your mouth, a sharp flex rippling under your lips — a warning, a tease.

“Kiss ‘em harder. Show me how much you worship the ground I walk on.”

And you do.

He’s lying back on the bench, one arm draped behind his head, the other resting on his stomach — fingers tracing lazy circles just beneath his navel. His sweatpants are low, resting sinfully on his hips, pulled just enough to bare the thick base of his abs and that perfectly obscene happy trail that cuts downward in a soft, dark line toward the waistband.

You're kneeling beside him. Close. Quiet. Breath held in your chest as you stare at it.

His trail is dark, thicker than you'd expected up close — not trimmed, not styled, just natural and masculine and so perfectly placed. It draws your eyes like a path, leading you lower. His stomach rises and falls slowly with each breath, the muscles underneath shifting gently. Warm. Smooth. Powerful.

You reach out, one hand trembling slightly, and rest your fingertips just below his chest. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He just watches you from above, eyes heavy-lidded and amused.

“That what you want, good boy?” His voice is low. Not mocking. Just soft. Confident.

You nod — barely — and lean down. Lips parted, breath trembling.

Your mouth presses gently to the edge of his abdomen, kissing just above the trail. The skin is warm, slightly salted with sweat, and his abs shift under your lips. His hand lifts and rests on the back of your head, not pushing, just claiming you.

You kiss again — lower this time, just to the edge of the trail. Your tongue flicks out, tasting him. It’s dizzying. His scent is thick here, stronger than anywhere else. Clean, earthy, slightly sweet with lingering cologne, but layered beneath is something more primal — his heat, his arousal, his rut.*

You follow the trail with your mouth, slowly, reverently — kissing down inch by inch, tongue tracing each dark hair, breathing him in as you go.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers curling softly into your hair. “Worship it. Follow it. It’ll take you right where you wanna be.”

But he doesn’t force you. He doesn’t even guide you. He just lets you stay there, nosing into the soft space below his navel, mouthing at the base of his trail like it’s holy.

You feel his hips shift beneath you. Not pushing, not humping — just twitching from the sensation. His cock stirs beneath the waistband, barely restrained, twitching once against the fabric. But your focus stays where it is — on the trail, the skin, the scent, the moment.

“You love this part of me, don’t you?” He smiles, not waiting for your answer. “Knew you did. Always caught you lookin’. Every damn time my shirt rides up, your eyes go right here.”

His voice drops lower — half-growl, half-praise. “Didn’t think you’d ever admit it. But now look at you.”

His palm presses you gently down again, guiding your mouth back to the trail. His fingers stroke your hair softly.

“Good boy.”

The words hit you harder than anything else. Your whole body goes hot. His happy trail twitches beneath your lips with the rise of another slow, deep breath.

And then he says, even softer:

“Don’t stop.”

You’re on your knees again — not because he asked, not because he told you to, but because you couldn’t stop looking. And he saw it. Of course he saw it. Gold Ship always sees everything. Especially when it comes to you.

Now, he’s standing in front of you. Leaned back casually against the locker, arms folded across his thick chest, looking down at you with that same crooked, dangerous grin he always wears when he knows you’re already gone.

He hasn’t said a word in over a minute. He doesn’t need to.

His bulge does all the talking.

It’s huge — outlined perfectly in those impossibly tight shorts. The fabric stretches across the thick weight of it, the shape obscene even in soft form. You can see the head. The ridge. The way it curves slightly to one side, pressing against the seam, twitching now and then when he shifts his stance.

You stare. Can’t stop. Don’t want to.

It’s warm here. The air around him is thick — with sweat, musk, skin, heat. That now-familiar scent that lives low in your lungs and clouds your thoughts. His thighs twitch, veins standing out, the subtle tension in his body only heightening the pressure behind the bulge.

Your eyes trace it again. He shifts slightly — hips rolling forward, just a little — and the bulge presses closer. It’s right there. Inches from your face.

Still, he doesn’t speak. Just watches.

You lift your hands slowly, reverently, placing your palms against the thick fabric. The heat hits instantly — and so does the weight. He’s heavy. Dense. Bigger than anyone has a right to be. You press gently, fingers sliding along the shaft through the shorts, and his breath finally changes.

“…There you go.” His voice is low. Rough. Full of heat. The kind of voice you feel in your chest.

You lean in closer. Breathe in. Your lips hover just above the cloth, and the scent is overwhelming now — his arousal layered over sweat and skin, musky and raw. You press your face softly to the bulge, nuzzling against it like it’s a sacred thing.

“You like that?” he murmurs, almost amused. “You’re not even sucking. Not even touching skin. Just breathing me in like a good boy.”

His hand lowers — rough, warm — sliding gently over the back of your head. Not pushing. Just resting there. Like a reward.

“You know I let it show for you, right?” He grinds just slightly, slow and deliberate, letting the curve of his cock drag against your cheek through the fabric. “Could’ve worn compression. Could’ve taped it down. But nah… I wanted you to look.”

You press your mouth to it now — soft, slow — kissing the outline through his shorts. His hips twitch again. A low sound escapes him, half-laugh, half-growl.

“That’s it… kiss it. Praise it. Let it know it’s loved.”

He presses his bulge a little closer, and you feel it pulse against your lips. Still barely hard — and yet already so full.

“You gonna say thank you, good boy?”

His fingers tighten just a little in your hair. Not a threat — a command wrapped in affection.

“C’mon. Thank the cock you worship. Let it hear you.”

It’s quiet when you walk into the locker room. No echo of boots on tile, no smug voice greeting you from around the corner. Just the hum of the old fluorescent lights overhead, and the faint warmth in the air — that kind of warmth that tells you someone was just here.

You pause. Something feels… off.

Then you see it.

There — on the bench in front of Gold Ship’s locker — is a towel. Folded. Purposefully placed. And sitting right on top of it, like a trophy on a pedestal, is a knotted condom.

Heavy. Bulging. Still warm.

Your stomach twists before your brain can even catch up. You recognize it instantly. The thickness. The volume. The slight ripple in the latex from how much he’d filled it. The knot at the base, tied with practiced ease. It's not even subtle — it's practically waiting for you.

There’s a little slip of paper tucked under the base. You hesitate, then slide it out with two fingers. Just a note, written in sharp, aggressive pen:

“You weren’t here. So I imagined you.”

Your heart skips.

Your fingers curl slightly around the condom. It's warm to the touch — not from the room. From him. From how recently this happened. You try not to look too closely at it… but you do. The shape inside. The thickness of the shaft. The sheer amount.

Your breath catches. The scent hits you next — not just latex. Not just sweat. It’s him. Deep and earthy, rich and musky, a little sweet and impossibly raw. You can smell his arousal in it. His need. It clings to your skin before you even make contact.

He came thinking of you. And then he left this behind. For you to find. To see. To know.

You swallow hard.

You should throw it out. You should turn around. But you don’t.

You hold it. You stare at it. You breathe in, trembling.

Then — the door opens. And he’s there.

Gold Ship.

Shirtless. Chest heaving from a jog. Hair damp, stuck to his neck. He pauses mid-step when he sees you — sees you holding it. His cocky smirk curves slowly into place, but there’s something darker behind it. Hungrier.

“…You found my message.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look embarrassed. He closes the door behind him. Locks it. Walks toward you without breaking eye contact.

Each step is slow. Deliberate. Heavy.

You’re still holding the condom.

He stops inches from you. Tilts his head down, towering — but calm. There’s heat rolling off him.*

“Still warm?”

He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering on your cheek.

“You gonna keep holding it…” His voice dips, velvet-slick and low. “…Or you gonna say thank you like a good boy?”

The room is quiet. Soft light from the stable window catches the outline of his body where he lies, half-covered by a thin sheet. Gold Ship’s eyes are half-lidded, his breath slow. He’s sprawled out on his back, arms behind his head, hair still damp, chest rising and falling with lazy ease.

And beneath that sheet — clearly outlined against the thin fabric — lies the full, heavy shape of him.

Not hard. Not even close. But still thick. Long. Heavy. A soft, twitching weight that rests down the side of his thigh, dark through the cotton.

Your eyes can’t leave it. And he knows.

His voice comes slow. Confident. A low purr in the quiet.

“You staring again?”

You don’t respond — but your hand moves slowly, reaching toward the sheet.

He doesn’t stop you.

You peel it back gently, and there it is: his cock lying thick and soft over his thigh, the skin flushed, the head heavy, the shaft hanging with the weight of a stallion. Even in its resting state, it looks too big to be real. And it twitches, faintly, under the brush of air — not from arousal, but from how sensitive it still is.

“Not even hard,” he murmurs, watching you now. “And you’re already breathin’ like I’ve got you pinned.”

You reach out, fingers trembling just slightly, and cup the underside — gentle. Testing the weight. He exhales through his nose, a low pleased sound humming in his chest.

He’s warm. Almost hot. Soft skin over dense mass. Veins visible even now, pulsing faintly beneath the surface. He shifts slightly, letting his legs part a little more, and the cock rolls down over his thigh further, settling into the dip like it belongs there.

You run your fingers along the shaft — from base to tip — slowly. Reverently. Like it’s sacred.

“You like touching it when it’s soft, huh?”

There’s no teasing in his tone. Just understanding. Like he gets it — why this matters to you. Why you love seeing him like this: open, relaxed, giving. And still so much.

You lean down, letting your cheek rest gently against his inner thigh, your hand still stroking him in long, slow passes. His cock twitches again at the contact — not arousal. Just response.

“Takes a good boy to appreciate it like this,” he says, fingers brushing into your hair. “To take his time. To worship it when it’s not trying to wreck him.”

You kiss it softly — the base, the side, the head. Nothing rushed. Just lips to skin, breath to heat. It twitches slightly under each kiss, a lazy beast stirring but not yet awake.

Gold Ship lets you stay like that — touching, holding, breathing — his voice softer now, almost fond.

“You like it best like this, don’t you?” “When it’s soft. When it’s yours. When no one else gets to see it but you.”

He smirks faintly.

“Then take your time, good boy. It’s not going anywhere.”

You wake to heat.

Not your own. Not from the sheets or the sun creeping in through the window. This is different. Heavier. Alive. Pressing.

Your body registers it before your brain does — the weight crushing gently over your chest and hips. The heat soaking through your skin. The deep, shaky breath against the side of your neck. And then the voice — low, ragged, strained like it hurts to speak.

“…C-couldn’t stop.”

You blink hard, breath catching as your eyes adjust. Your hands are pinned — not by force, but by weight. By muscle. And then you see him. All of him.

Gold Ship is completely nude, crouched over you with his forearms braced beside your head, thighs straddling your hips. He’s massive — warm, twitching, soaked with sweat. His eyes are wild, red-rimmed with heat. His breath comes fast, like he just finished sprinting. His whole body shakes.

And his cock… hangs thick and heavy between you, leaking steadily against your lower stomach, already semi-hard despite his trembling.

“I broke it,” he says, voice hoarse. “The mount. Snapped the fuckin’ frame.”

You glance past his shoulder — and there it is. The breeding mound. Shattered. Split at the base, soaked and ruined. The straps snapped. The padding clawed apart.

He shakes above you, sweating hard, thighs tensing. His cock bobs slightly, swelling more by the second.

His hips twitch forward without meaning to, and the head of his cock presses against your skin. He groans — broken, feral.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your smell. Your voice. That little noise you make when I press against your back.”

His nose brushes your neck. He inhales deep and shudders all the way down.

“You smell so fucking good. S-so soft under me. I—I tried to wait.”

One of his hands drags down your side, claws lightly at your shirt like he can’t stand it being there. His body presses closer. You feel every inch of him now — the twitching, the heat, the desperate control hanging on by a thread.

His voice is muffled when he speaks again — low, trembling, full of restrained pain.

“Please... tell me to stop if you want me to. I’ll try. I swear I’ll try. But I can’t—” His hips grind once — just once — and his whole body convulses with a growl.

“I need you.”

His forehead drops to yours. Sweat drips onto your skin. His cock throbs — harder now, leaking more.

“My good boy… you’re the only one who can fix this.”

He bites his lower lip, visibly trying to keep still. Trying to hold back. Failing.

Then his hips rock forward again — helplessly — and he gasps your name like it’s a prayer.