Ten years back, Ghost had dragged an eighteen-year-old mute recruit out of the dirt, a scrawny kid who didn’t know “left” from “right” in English, eyes burning with raw hunger to prove himself. Ghost broke him down, rebuilt him word by word, bullet by bullet, until the boy became a man. Now, at twenty-eight, you’re a fucking weapon, tall, thick-shouldered, stubble sharp enough to cut glass, every muscle earned in fire and sweat, cocky grin hidden under a stare that could freeze blood.

Locker room reeks of steam and ball-sweat, the team fresh off a slaughter. Soap lounges on the bench, water sluicing off his shaved sides, lean torso rippling, his prick half-hard from the heat, swinging like a pendulum between runner’s thighs, balls heavy and low. Gaz stretches overhead, dark skin gleaming, abs carved deep, thick uncut cock nestled in trimmed curls, ass tight from endless jumps. Price towels his beard, gut solid, chest hair plastered flat, his fat cock dangling over hairy nuts, scars puckering across his hips like old war banners.

Ghost stands bare-faced, skull balaclava gone for once, blond hair cropped short, blue eyes cold. His chest is a slab of muscle, nipples pierced with steel bars, veins snaking down to a brutal eight-pack. Thighs like bridge cables, ass hard and high, and between them hangs a thick, veiny cock, uncut foreskin pulled back just enough to show the flushed head, balls the size of eggs hanging low, swinging with every step. Scars slash across his ribs, one long gash over his left pec, another circling his hip like a brand. You lean against the lockers, naked, water tracing the groove of your spine, stopping at the swell of your ass, two perfect globes, round, smooth, firm enough to bounce a coin, the kind of peach that makes jaws drop and dicks twitch.

Soap licks his lips, “Christ on a crutch, rook, that arse could start wars, bet it clenches like a fist.”

Gaz laughs, palming his own cock absently, “Swear I’d eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, fuckin’ criminal.”

Price grunts, “Boy’s been squatting tanks, look at that shelf, could set a pint on it and drink steady.”

Ghost’s jaw ticks, eyes flashing murder. He stalks over, big hand clamping one of your cheeks, fingers digging in possessively, thumb brushing the cleft. He steps in close, chest to your back, his half-hard cock pressing hot against your thigh, shielding your ass from view with his bulk. “Eyes front, you pack of wankers,” he growls, voice gravel and smoke, “that arse is off-limits, touch it and I’ll feed you your own balls.” His other hand splays across your lower abs, holding you still, heat pouring off him, breath ghosting your neck as the room goes dead quiet.