First Night in the Village
The Olympic Village in Cortina d’Ampezzo felt like a fever dream of modern minimalism and raw alpine energy. Rows of tiny homes lined the snowy paths, each one a sleek wooden cube glowing softly against the dark pines. Inside, athletes from every corner of the world unpacked gear, laughed too loud, and let the electric hum of the Games settle into their bones. The air carried the sharp bite of frost mixed with the faint smell of pine resin and hot chocolate from the communal lounge.
Andrew Wright stepped out of his team bus just after midnight, duffel slung over one shoulder, breath fogging in the cold. At nineteen, he was the youngest on the British curling team, and the weight of that fact pressed against his ribs every time he inhaled. He had qualified through sheer stubbornness and a knack for reading ice that his coaches called uncanny, but now, standing in front of his assigned tiny home, the thrill felt dangerously close to panic.
He was skinny, always had been, five foot eight and built like a runner who never quite filled out. Short black hair, a neatly trimmed mustache that he had grown because it made him look older and because half the young guys on social media were doing it. His skin was pale, dusted with only the lightest scatter of dark hair across his chest and legs. He knew how he looked: delicate, almost pretty, the kind of boy who got called “cute” instead of “hot” until someone saw him stripped down and moving with purpose. He had never minded the label. Until tonight, when every glance from a taller, broader athlete made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with competition nerves.
He dropped his bag inside the door and flicked on the light. The space was small but efficient: narrow bed, desk, tiny bathroom, a window overlooking the curling venue’s distant floodlights. He stripped off his parka and hoodie, leaving himself in compression leggings and a thin long-sleeve base layer that clung to every line of his body. His nipples tightened instantly in the cool air. He caught his reflection in the narrow mirror beside the sink and stared for a long moment. Wide hazel eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted like he was waiting for someone to kiss them. He looked scared. He looked horny. He looked exactly like what he was: a virgin to the Olympic experience, desperate for any distraction that would quiet the loop in his head.
The what-ifs were relentless. What if he slipped on his delivery? What if the stone curled wrong and cost them a point? What if he choked in front of the cameras and became the kid who ruined Britain’s medal chances? He needed to stop thinking.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, opened Grindr, and let the grid populate. Dozens of profiles lit up the screen. Shirtless torsos, sweaty gym selfies, the occasional face pic from someone bold enough to risk it in the Olympic bubble. He scrolled past the usual suspects: the American speed skater with the perfect abs, the Norwegian skier who listed “vers top” in his stats, the Canadian hockey player who had already changed his location to “Cortina Village.” Andrew’s thumb hovered. He had rules. No faceless profiles. No blank bios. No one who couldn’t bother to say hello like a human being.
Then he saw it.
A black square with a single flexed biceps emoji. No face, no torso, nothing but that thick arm and the simple text beneath:
Beefy muscular guy, looking for fun with athletic twink.
Location: Cortina Village.
Andrew’s pulse kicked hard. He should have swiped past. He never messaged blank profiles. But the word “beefy” landed like a hand on the back of his neck, and the phrase “athletic twink” felt like it had been written just for him. He was nervous, aching, and the thought of someone bigger, stronger, someone who knew exactly what he wanted, made his cock twitch against the tight fabric of his leggings.
He tapped the profile.
No stats listed beyond height (6’4”) and a vague “here for the week.” No age, no team, no nothing. Just that biceps emoji staring back at him like a dare.
Andrew’s fingers moved before his brain could catch up.
Andrew: Hey. First time seeing a profile like yours here. You actually real or just a ghost with good arms?
He hit send and immediately regretted it. Too cheeky. Too British. He tossed the phone onto the bed and paced the tiny room, heart hammering. The seconds stretched. Then the notification pinged.
MuscleEmoji: Real. You?
Andrew laughed under his breath, tension loosening just a fraction.
Andrew: Very real. British curling team. Andrew. You?
A pause. Longer this time.
MuscleEmoji: Florian. German. Not telling you my sport yet. Don’t want you Googling me.
Andrew’s eyebrows lifted. Straightforward. No emojis, no flirting, just facts. It was kind of hot.
Andrew: Fair. I’m not Googling anyone tonight anyway. Too nervous to think straight.
MuscleEmoji: First Olympics?
Andrew: Yeah. Feels like I’m about to throw up every time I think about tomorrow’s practice.
MuscleEmoji: You won’t. Breathe. Focus on the next stone, not the medal stand.
Andrew stared at the message. It was blunt, almost clinical, but it steadied something inside him.
Andrew: Easy for you to say. You sound like you’ve done this before.
MuscleEmoji: Third time. You get used to the noise in your head.
Andrew: Lucky you. Mine won’t shut up.
Another pause.
MuscleEmoji: Then distract yourself.
Andrew’s mouth went dry. He could picture the man on the other end: tall, broad, probably shirtless in his own tiny home, thumb moving over the screen with the same deliberate focus he probably brought to everything else.
Andrew: That’s why I’m on here.
MuscleEmoji: Good. Tell me what you look like.
Andrew hesitated. He had a shirtless pic in his profile already, but something about typing it out felt dirtier.
Andrew: Skinny. 5’8. Black hair, mustache. Not much body hair. Tight leggings right now and nothing else.
MuscleEmoji: Send a pic of those leggings.
Andrew’s breath caught. He angled his phone, snapped a quick shot of his lower half: slim hips, the pronounced bulge of his half-hard cock outlined against the dark fabric, thighs lean but defined from years on the ice. He hit send before he could second-guess.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
MuscleEmoji: Fuck. You’re exactly what I wanted to see tonight.
Andrew’s cock thickened fully now, pressing insistently against the compression material.
Andrew: Your turn.
MuscleEmoji: Not yet. Want to see more of you first.
Andrew swallowed. He peeled off the long-sleeve shirt, leaving himself bare from the waist up. Pale skin, small pink nipples already peaked, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband. He took another photo, this one from the chest down, arm raised slightly so the light caught the curve of his bicep and the dip of his collarbone.
He sent it.
MuscleEmoji: Christ. Those nipples look like they need attention.
Andrew groaned softly, thumb brushing over one peak. A shiver ran through him.
Andrew: They do. Badly.
MuscleEmoji: Touch them. Pinch. Hard.
Andrew obeyed without thinking. His fingers closed around the sensitive bud and squeezed. A sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shot straight to his cock. He gasped, hips rocking forward into nothing.
Andrew: Fuck. That felt good.
MuscleEmoji: Good boy. Now the other one.
Andrew switched hands, repeating the motion. His breathing grew ragged. The tiny home felt too warm suddenly, the air thick.
MuscleEmoji: You hard?
Andrew: So hard it hurts.
MuscleEmoji: Show me.
Andrew shoved his leggings down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, flushed dark pink, the head slick already. Six inches, cut, slender, curving slightly upward. He wrapped his fingers around it and stroked once, slow, letting the pre-cum bead at the tip.
He took the photo and sent it.
The reply came fast.
MuscleEmoji: Beautiful. I want that in my mouth.
Andrew’s knees nearly buckled.
Andrew: Jesus. You’re going to kill me.
MuscleEmoji: Not yet. I want to see you come first. Edge yourself. Don’t finish until I say.
Andrew’s hand moved faster, then slowed when the pressure built too high. He teased the head with his thumb, smearing the slickness, imagining it was Florian’s tongue instead. His free hand drifted back to his nipple, twisting harder this time. A whimper escaped him.
MuscleEmoji: You whimpering for me already?
Andrew: Can’t help it. You’re too fucking hot and I haven’t even seen you.
MuscleEmoji: Soon. Keep stroking. Slow. Tell me when you’re close.
Andrew’s hips rocked into his fist. His balls drew up tight, the familiar coil winding in his gut.
Andrew: Close. Really close.
MuscleEmoji: Stop.
Andrew’s hand froze. He whined, loud in the quiet room.
MuscleEmoji: Good. Breathe. Again. Build it back up.
They went on like that for what felt like forever. Andrew edging, leaking, begging in short desperate messages. Florian directing him with calm, commanding precision. No emojis. No wasted words. Just control.
Finally, when Andrew was shaking, thighs trembling, cock throbbing angrily against his palm:
MuscleEmoji: Come for me. Now.
Andrew’s vision whited out. He stroked hard and fast, once, twice, and then he was spilling over his fingers, hot pulses landing on his stomach, chest, even catching the underside of his chin. He moaned Florian’s name like a prayer, body jerking through the aftershocks.
He collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, phone clutched in his sticky hand.
Andrew: Holy shit.
MuscleEmoji: You did good.
A photo arrived a moment later.
It was a torso shot, taken from above. Thick pecs dusted with trimmed blond hair, wide shoulders, a treasure trail leading down to the waistband of black boxer briefs stretched tight over a heavy bulge. The arm holding the phone flexed, biceps rounded and veined, a tuft of dark blond hair visible in the deep pit. No face, but the sheer size of him made Andrew’s spent cock twitch again.
MuscleEmoji: Tomorrow night. My place. Tiny home 47. Bring that pretty cock and those needy little nipples.
Andrew stared at the photo, heart pounding all over again.
Andrew: I’ll be there.
He set the phone down and stared at the ceiling, the afterglow mixing with fresh anticipation.
For the first time since he arrived, the noise in his head was quiet.
... To be continued
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