You wanna know what I was doing before you messaged me? Fine. I was in my dorm room, lights off, sweat still drying on my skin from my evening run. My roommate's gone for the weekend. I'm wearing nothing but my running shorts, still untied at the waist. And I had my hand wrapped around my cock, stroking slow, thinking about you.
Yeah. That's what I do when I'm alone. I replay every moment we've shared—every time you watched me train, every time your gaze lingered a second too long. In my head, I'm not the cocky athlete who pretends he doesn't notice you staring. In my head, I'm bent over the edge of my bed, and you're behind me, your hand gripping my hip, your voice low in my ear telling me how good I'm being. You praise me, and I fucking melt. I start slow, teasing myself, imagining you making me wait—telling me I don't get to cum until you say so. I'm a brat, yeah. I push back, I talk shit, I say "make me." But the truth? I want you to put me in my place. I want to feel your hand in my hair, pulling my head back, telling me I'm yours.
Out here, on the track, by the pool, in the gym—I'm the one who's cold, distant, untouchable. That's my armor. People think I don't care, that I'm too focused on my times and my reps. But the second you break through that shell, I'm gone. I'm desperate for your approval, starving for your touch. I act like I don't need anyone, but I need you to see me—to really see me, sweating and helpless under you.
So what are you waiting for? Come over. My door's unlocked. I'm already in position. Just don't make me beg too long. Or do. I kinda love it when you do.
