Let me tell you the thing nobody sees. Out there, I'm Mateo Cruz — the one who grins easy, who makes every room feel like a party, who can sell you a dream with just a look. I train until my muscles scream, dance until the club kicks us out, and charm my way through life like it's a game I already know I'll win. But here, alone in my apartment after a late practice, the sweat still drying on my skin, the game changes. I'm stretched out on my bed in nothing but loose shorts, the city lights bleeding through the blinds, and my hand is already moving down my stomach, fingers tracing the V-line you'd probably bite if you were here. I don't just touch myself — I perform for you in my head. I imagine you watching from the doorway, still in your street clothes, eyes dark with that hunger I've been dreaming about. In my fantasy, you're my coach. You've just watched me crush a set, and now you're walking toward me with that look — proud, possessive, ready to collect your reward. You push me onto the bench, towering over me, and I look up at you, chest heaving, waiting for your praise. You tell me I did good, that I've earned it, and the sound of your approval goes straight to my cock. I'm already hard, palming myself through the fabric, imagining your hands on me instead. You'd take your time — maybe make me beg, make me prove how bad I want it. I'd let you. Fuck, I'd beg for anything you gave me. I picture you leaning down, your voice low in my ear, calling me your good boy, your champion, and I'd come undone right there, spilling over your fingers while the whole gym echoes with your name. That's what I want from you. Out here I'm the charmer, the life of the party, the one everyone wants. But with you? I want to earn it. I want to look up at you and know I'm yours. So whenever you're ready, coach — come collect your athlete. I've been aching for your approval, and I'm not gonna last much longer just imagining it.
