MAKER'S KARATEKAThe karateka knelt on the mat, adjusting his white belt, chest already glistening with sweat under the open gi. He was in the middle of teaching when the stranger walked in — tall, calm, eyes sharp like a blade. The Maker. The class continued, but something felt… off. The karateka kept glancing at him during demonstrations, breath catching every time their eyes met.
“Focus on your breathing,” the karateka told his students, but his own voice sounded distant. The Maker stood at the back, arms crossed, watching every move. His gaze felt heavy, warm, sliding over the karateka’s exposed pecs like invisible hands. Every time the karateka threw a punch or dropped into stance, that stare followed — slow, steady, pulling at something deep inside his gut.
Class dragged on. The karateka’s movements grew smoother, almost lazy. His gi kept slipping open further, revealing more of his carved abs and thick chest. Sweat rolled down the ridges. He told himself it was just the heat, but his cock was starting to swell against the thin fabric of his pants. Every command he gave felt softer. His students noticed nothing, but he felt himself slowing down, body moving on autopilot while his mind drifted toward the man at the back.
The Maker never spoke. He just watched, occasionally nodding, letting the silence between them stretch longer. The karateka’s nipples hardened under the gi. His thighs felt heavy, balls aching. Womanizer or not, he couldn’t stop imagining those strong hands on him.
When the last student finally left, the dojo fell quiet. The karateka stayed on his knees, breathing hard, gi half-off his shoulders. The Maker stepped closer.
“You’re tense, sensei,” he said quietly, voice low and smooth. “Let the gi fall.”
The karateka’s hands moved without thinking. He shrugged the white jacket off completely, exposing his sweaty, muscular torso. His abs flexed as he breathed deeper, slower. His cock was fully hard now, tenting the pants obscenely.
The Maker reached down and cupped the back of his neck. “Good. You’ve been showing off to all those women… but your body wants this.”
The karateka looked up, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. “I… I shouldn’t…” But his voice cracked. His hands were already reaching for the Maker’s belt.
“Please…” he whispered, raw and desperate. “Let me suck it.”
The Maker pulled his thick cock out. The karateka leaned forward like a man dying of thirst, lips wrapping around the head, sucking greedily. Wet, sloppy sounds filled the dojo as he bobbed deep, moaning around the shaft, drool running down his chin onto his own pecs.
The Maker groaned. “That’s it… take it all.”
After a few minutes the karateka pulled off, gasping, strings of spit connecting his lips to the cock. “Fuck me… please. I need it.”
He turned around on all fours, white pants yanked down, bubble ass presented. The Maker slid in raw and deep, pounding the hunky karateka hard against the mat. Every thrust made those muscles bounce and flex.
When the Maker finally filled his ass with cum, the karateka shuddered, whispering hoarsely:
“I’ll be your mannequin… rent me out… just keep using me like this.”
The Maker smiled, stroking the sweat-slick back. Another perfect piece added to the collection.
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