So, uh, just a heads-up: this story is essentially an amalgamation of other stories I read a long time ago. I mashed them up and tried to remake it with the sole intent to practice my writing skills. Honestly, it's less about the plot and more about my, like, "poetry" or whatever. Enjoy! Or don't. Either way, here it is.
PART 1 HUNGRY TEAM MEETS HOT MODEL
CHAPTER 1
Ella walked steady, her steps light. The stadium rose in the distance, a great and hulking thing against the sky, its floodlights skeletal in the afternoon glare. She kept her pace even. She was not one to be late. But she was not familiar with this place either, and unfamiliarity had a way of turning time against a person.
Inside, the air smelled of sweat and damp concrete. A security guard sat slouched on a plastic chair, a man whose spirit had long since fled the body that bore it. He lifted a hand, slow and indifferent, giving her directions, and she found the Men Locker Room easy enough.
At the door she paused, reading the warning stenciled in block letters, stark and unforgiving:
"LION'S LOCKER ROOM--KEEP OUT!"
A second sign hung below it, curling at the edges, the black marker scrawled in a hurried hand:
"Room closed to everyone except main roster players, coaches (and guests today!)"
"Guess that means me," she murmured.
The Georgia Lions. That was their name. She'd only seen them play once, the soo revered American Football. Ella wans't a fan, and couldn't understand a thing about it. The football she knew back from England was an entire differently sport, fast and deft, a thing of precision and fluid motion, with players trying to guide and kick a ball with only their feet--a game of strategy, endurance but mostly skill, where a single man could turn the tide in any match.
But this
other
football was something else entirely, with men in armor colliding like beasts, a thing both primitive and calculated. There was a ball too, altought it didn't had the shape of a ball. Ella couldn't undestand the game--it had seemed absurd to her at first, laughable even, this great spectacle of violence where no real blows were thrown. And yet there was something in it. Something that held people to watch, waiting for the next crash of bodies, the next struggle for that oval-shaped ball.
And the men are fucking hot, too,
Ella pictured them. The broad shoulders, the thick arms, the legs like carved stone. Built for impact, for force, for domination. She thought about what else might be broad and thick, and heat licked up her spine.
Get a hold of yourself, girl!
She shook her head, the ghost of a laugh escaping her lips. Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The place was empty for now, but it was almost time. Any minute now and thee players woud come filing in, sweat-slick and spent from practice, their bodies worn down from their training.
She had a reason for being here: a photo shoot. That explained the cheerleader's uniform, the heels, the careful touch of makeup, and why she was standing at the threshold of the Lions' locker room, alone.
In retrospect, it was one of those things that felt inevitable, a kind of narrative foregone conclusion--the way certain people just seem to glide through life on a track greased by some unspoken yet universally acknowledged law of human desirability. Ella'd done modeling before--bikini spreads, fashion shoots, the kind of ephemeral, mostly regional gigs that weren't exactly Vogue, but still paid in real money and got her name into the sort of databases that mattered. And sure, she was well aware that the true professionals, the Victoria's Secret angels and international runway queens, existed in a different stratosphere, but they were aging out, softening around the edges, getting that slightly desperate look that happens when you realize your expiration date is creeping up faster than you ever thought possible.
Ella, on the other hand, was was still in the golden zone--fresh, luminous and rare, in that window of time where everything about her seemed impossibly crisp and high-definition. Her face and her red hair had that unfair mix of angelic symmetry and something more carnal, with big, beautiful and 100% natural breasts and a nice ass that had made many horny boys wet their underwear over the years.
In other words, she was fricking hot, and she was aware of that.
So when the call went out for a model to shoot with the Lions, she didn't have to apply. The job found her. Or rather, some unseen collective decision had been made that Ella was the kind of girl who should be in front of the camera, and the machinery of the world simply adjusted itself accordingly.
Since she was alone, she went to explore the Lions "Cave". At first glance, it was like any other locker room, which is to say it was exactly like every other locker room Ella had ever stepped into--well, women locker room, at least! It was basically a long hallway, dim and narrow, the kind of transitional space that existed only to funnel people from one place to another, no need for decoration or embellishment beyond the purely utilitarian. To her right, the showers. To her left, the toilets. Ceramic tile, off-white with hairline cracks like veins of something old and buried. Sinks arranged in a row, their porcelain dulled to a permanent matte, faucets polished not by care but by sheer volume of use, a slow erosion of metal against countless hands. The lockers, lined up in obedient formation, their dented doors bearing the scars of years of careless force. Like everything in that campus, it was the kind of place where things lasted, not because they were meant to, but because no one cared enough to replace them.
And then the smell hit her.
Not gradually, not creeping in at the edges like an afterthought, but all at once, like stepping into a wall of humidity after hours in air conditioning. Thick. Dense. Clinging to everything--the tile, the benches, the air itself, curling into her nose, settling in the back of her throat. Sweat. Musk. The kind of deep, bodily scent that couldn't be scrubbed away no matter how many industrial-strength cleaning solutions were dumped on the floor after practice.
The distilled essence of exertion, of men.
Something about it felt raw. Unfiltered. Primal in a way that sidestepped logic entirely, hitting some ancient, reptilian part of her brain that didn't care about hygiene or civility or the fact that she was standing, alone, in an empty room where a dozen or more men would soon be stripping off their gear.
Big bodies, slick with sweat, jerseys peeled away to reveal muscle gone tight with exertion...
The thick press of veins over forearms, the ridges of abdominals that flexed and hardened with every movement, the weight of exhaustion settling deep into thighs built for speed and power...
Flacid cocks in the open, all big and thick, just waiting for the right stimulation...
