Mason came back for the next yoga session on his planning. I don’t know why this surprised me (maybe because gym bros tend to vanish after realizing yoga isn’t just stretching and vibes) but there he was again, ten minutes early, hoodie already off this time.
He was wearing one of those typical drop arm tank tops that some guys wear at the gym now. Loose fit, large openings, yet his pecs were really defined and stretched the front. This oufit on him should honestly be illegal for the general public’s blood pressure, but I guess It's still better than topless.
Same bright grin. Same messy brown hair. Same collarbeard framing that annoyingly perfect jaw. And still completely oblivious to how warm he runs. The studio wasn’t even heated yet and he looked like someone who’d just jogged here for fun.
“Hey man! I practiced at home,” he said proudly, setting his mat down halfway sideways. “Well… tried. My knees made this noise like Velcro dying.”
I had no idea what that meant, but I told him it was normal.
Class started pretty calmly — a little teal yoga this time since it’s supposed to help with stress and grounding. Mostly soft-flow transitions, nothing wild. I didn’t want him dislocating something again.
We were doing Warrior II, and the entire time, Mason kept sneaking glances at me like he was checking whether he was pointing in the right direction or summoning a demon by mistake. His stance was way too wide, like he was preparing for a rugby tackle, not inner balance, but that got me some inner laughs.
“Like this?” he whispered.
His quad was trembling like a leaf. He was sweating from the warm-up and he looked so earnest and confused that I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.
Then we shifted into Triangle Pose, which requires a bit of hip opening, and that’s when he got stuck. Not metaphorically. Physically stuck.
He bent sideways, reached down, and then froze mid-position:
“Bro… I think my hamstring is refusing the mission,” he muttered. “I’m like… locked.”
This man.
This big, strong, ridiculously built man.
Defeated by the triangle.
I walked over to help, and as soon as I touched his hip to adjust his position, he did the thing again, that startled jump like he’d been unplugged and rebooted.
“Oh! Right, right, teacher touch,” he said, nodding at himself. “Keep forgetting that’s a thing.”
He said this while his arm brushed against my stomach because he was off balance, and I’m not proud to say my brain short-circuited too. I did my best to reposition him the correct way without lingering too much on his heating body, but Mason was pretty demanding, like, way more demanding that the avergage student and I couldn't resist his calls.
When we moved into Pigeon Pose (which is usually peaceful), Mason made it sound like it was some physical torture invented just to punish him:
“Duuude this stretch on my right leg.” He litteraly grunted. "Shiiiiit."
“Mason, watch me, breathe into it,” I tried to keep my professional aura. "Straighten your back and look up, there, towards the sky like a real pigeon.
"And now, coo!" I heard some other student say from a distance.
And Mason actually started cooing, as if it were something you were supposed to do.
I couldn't take it anymore, so I burst out laughing. That guy was just too much. When he realised it was maybe not needed to actually do the posture, I saw the redness on his cheeks intensify.
Yes, he was clueless and a bit lost, but he kept trying. And I swear, every time he pushed through a difficult posture, he’d give me this little grin, like he needed my approval to survive the next stretch. And it worked, because I wanted to throw him into a blanket fort and protect him from every tight muscle he’s ever had and cherish him.
Yeah, I was falling for him pretty bad.
The class eventually ended, and I was cleaning up when Mason hovered next to me with that “I’m about to ask something stupid” expression I was dreading.
“So uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck (which, by the way, showed off his biceps way too well). “My legs feel like… steel pipes. Like, stiff in a ‘might snap off’ way. Is that normal?”
“It can be,” I said. "Maybe it's because you're working on new muscles? Have you been stretching some more at home?"
“Dunno man... Is there… like… a trick? Something to make it less painfull after practice?”
He looked genuinely distressed (and also adorable). I had to give him some proper treatment:
“There are exercices you can do at home,” I offered. "Some of them don't even recquire a mat, you just need a desk or a table."
He nodded. Then frowned:
“Yeah but I feel like I’m doing them wrong? My ex used to help with this stuff but… well. That’s over. And I don’t want to break myself alone in my living room, you know?”
He made a little embarrassed laugh:
“You could show me? I don't know how it works but... like in the gym, if some guy can't get the right posture or struggles with a set, people around are going to offer help, right?"
“For sure. Well, if you have a five minutes now we can work on it in my office right there. I've got a massage table.”
He didn't even blink:
“Oh man, you also can do that? That would be awesome. Is that extra charge?”
I was dying inside. this man was genuinely charming.
He followed me toward the back of the studio, calling his legs "hard as wood" and I swear I had to take a silent, discreet breath because he smelled warm again, that clean-laundry-and-gym-sweat scent.
The room was dim, lit by a single lamp, massage table in the center draped in fresh sheets that smelled faintly of lavender oil.
"Hop up here, face down first," I say, my voice soft, controlled.
He climbed on in his gym shorts and nike socks, tank top riding up to flash those hairy lower abs. No underwear bulge yet, but I know what's coming.
I warmed the oil in my hands, the slick scent filling the space, and started on his calves. They felt powerful, rock-hard muscles from all those squats he was surely doing weekly. My fingers dig in deep, kneading the knots, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shorts. He groans low, muffled into the table:
"Fuck, bro, that's the spot. You're a wizard or some shit."
I worked upward, thumbs pressing into his hamstrings, thick and unyielding.
His legs spread a bit naturally, giving me better access, and that's when I noticed it. The subtle shift in his shorts. No underwear, just like yesterday. His massive cock started to stir, thickening against his thigh as blood rushes was being pumped there. I kept my touch professional at first, gliding over the quads, but it was impossible not to brush closer to the hem, where the outline begins to form.
Stay progesionnal. This is just some cool straight guy that wants his leg pain away. Nothing more!
Pre-cum started leaking almost immediately, a wet spot blooming on the gray fabric as his dick swells, trapped and growing. The scent hit me: musky and complex. My own cock twitched in my pants, but I stayed focused, or at least tried to the best I could manage with all this, circling my hands around his inner thighs, inches from the heat radiating off him.
"How's that feel, Mason? Tension easing?"
'"eah, man, gold. Keep at it," he mumbled, face still buried, hips shifting slightly. His cock seemed fully hard now, a club pressing against the seam of his shorts, the helmet outlined sharp and flared. Pre-cum dribbled steadily, soaking through in a dark patch that spread toward his knee. Drops seeped out, falling between his legs, on the table, pooling and pooling.
I couln't resist anymore: my fingers 'accidentally' grazed the base of his tool as I massaged higher, feeling the thick shaft throb under the fabric. It was bent awkwardly, stuck between his powerful leg and the tight shorts, the foreskin pulled taut over the leaking head.
"Shiit, your truly my lifesaver." He commented, eyes fully closed in pleasure.
More pre-cum oozed, slicking my fingertips when I brushed it, hot and sticky. I swear the table was truly getting messy as time passed by. There were thos shiny puddles forming from the thick drip, the air heavy with his salty scent. I could smell how strong his cum was from my position.
He grunted again, deeper this time, but didn't pull away. My hands focued on the inner thigh now, rubbing circles that nudged his cock with each pass, the helmet poking insistently, fabric rasping wetly.
It was truly harder to stay mission-focused, my own dick was aching to take over, but I resisted touching it or even thinking about what I could do with Mason's, I kept thinking about funny things like the moment he started imitating pidgeons earlier. I had to distract myself.
Suddenly, Mason seemed to realise something was up with his drooling dick and tensed, lifting his head. He glanced down, eyes widening at the massive bulge, his cock wedged tight between his thigh and shorts, the tip trapped and dripping profusely. Pre-cum was everywhere, staining his leg, up the table edge. It was a shiny mess.
"Shit, bro—uh, sorry," he stammered, voice shy for once, that confused bulldog look flushing his face. He shifted quickly, trying to hide it by crossing his legs awkwardly, the movement squeezing out another bead that splated:
"So sorry man. Guess I'm just... worked up from the yoga or whatever. Didn't mean to make a mess there. You've got some tissue?"
"Don't worry, It's normal." Yeah, I had to lie here, because no one had ever summoned so much precum on my massage table before. No one. "I'll take care of that."
"Okay. Sorry again. See you next time then."
He sat up fast, grabbing his hoodie, face red as he averted his eyes from the mess, the scent of his leak hanging thick in the room.
"Sure, next Friday?"
"Uh, more like next Wednesday!" I corrected him.
He quickly readjusted his enormous member with the palm of his hand, trying to hide it's engorged state to me:
"Ah yeah, sorry. Next wesnday." Poor man was really confused.
"Thanks for the rub, though."
I didn't even have time to say a proper goodye, dude had already left the room.
Just look at the kind of specimen I had to deal with. It was too much for me; if I wanted to retain any sanity, I had to act. For Mason's sake, but also for my own.
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