CAPTAIN'S HUSTLING
I fill the doorway, still warm from drills. The red tank clings to my chest, tracing the line of my pecs. The gym bag strap rides my shoulder, lats tight under it, socks pulled high over calves that won’t stop twitching from sprints.
He steps out of the bathroom light and looks me over. “You really the captain?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, catching my breath. “Came straight from practice. We need those uniforms.”
He taps the neckline of my tank. “You play hard.”
“Always.” I grin. “You gonna help us win off the field?”
He smiles and hooks a finger in the fabric, drawing me in. Our forearms brush; mine’s slick, his cool. We kiss—quick, testy—then longer. I guide him back to the bed with small, firm nudges of my hips.
“Bossy,” he murmurs, falling onto the mattress.
“Captain,” I correct, knees spreading as I plant my feet. My quads swell against the shorts; the socks crease behind my knees. He palms up my shins, over the hinge of the knee, to the thick fan of muscle above it.
“Damn,” he says softly, squeezing. “You’re carved.”
“Leg day,” I puff, rolling my shoulders. The tank pulls across my chest as I inhale; my core tightens, ribs showing. He follows the sweat line down my sternum with slow, teasing kisses through the damp fabric. My back arches, then settles. I keep one hand on his shoulder, steering.
“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he says.
“Not a chance.”
We move together, bodies answering like a practiced drill. Hips press, then retreat; breath syncs. His forearms cord as he braces; my calves lock and release. I roll us—quick post on an elbow, abs firing to keep balance—and he laughs into my throat.
“You’re really built for this,” he whispers.
“For ninety minutes,” I shoot back, smiling.
The room warms. We trade short bursts—box-sprint quick—then lengthen into slower drives, glutes firing, spines flexing. My tank rides higher, damp and clinging; his hands map the taper of my back, thumbs in the grooves beside my spine. We hit a rhythm that feels like stoppage time—urgent, precise, everything working.
His hand slides down to my ass, squeezing firmly. I groan as his fingers trace the crack, teasing. He pulls me closer, our cocks pressing together through the fabric. Precum leaks from the tip of my cock, dampening the shorts. He grinds against me, his own precum slicking our skin.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire.
I reach down, gripping his ass, pulling him tighter against me. Our cocks rub together, the friction building. I can feel the heat of his body, the hard length of his cock against mine. He moans, his breath hot on my neck.
“Want to feel you inside me,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper.
I roll us over, pinning him beneath me. His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. I reach down, positioning my cock at his entrance. With a slow, steady push, I slide into him, inch by inch, until I’m fully sheathed.
“Fuck,” he gasps, his eyes rolling back. “You’re so deep.”
I start to move, slow and deep thrusts that hit every spot. His hips buck against mine, meeting my rhythm. The room fills with the sound of our flesh slapping together, our breaths coming in ragged gasps.
“Harder,” he demands, his nails digging into my back. “Fuck me harder.”
I oblige, increasing the pace, my hips snapping against his ass. The bed creaks with the force of our movements. His cock, hard and leaking, bobs between us, precum coating my abs.
“Touch yourself,” I command, my voice rough with need. “Make yourself cum.”
He reaches down, wrapping his hand around his cock, stroking in time with my thrusts. His breath hitches, his body tenses, and with a final, desperate stroke, he cums, his release coating my stomach and chest.
The sight of him, the feel of his ass clenching around my cock, sends me over the edge. I thrust deep, once, twice, and then I’m cumming, my cock pulsing as I fill him with my seed.
We collapse together, our bodies slick with sweat and cum. I roll off him, pulling him into my arms. His head rests on my chest, his breath slowing as he drifts off to sleep.
When the rush fades, I’m standing again, a little wobbly, shoulders squared by habit. He presses an envelope to my palm. “For the uniforms,” he says.
I sling the bag, grip tightening on the strap. “For the team,” I answer, chest still heaving, legs pleasantly heavy, and step back into the hallway, captain posture locked in.
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