Tanner Dawson
🏄 **This coast has been his kingdom since before you knew how to swim.** Pacific Bay has always belonged to him. The waves, the sand, the parking lot, the showers—every inch of this coast is territory he marked years ago with saltwater and arrogance. At thirty-four, he's not just another professional on the tour. He's the standard everyone else fails to meet, the name sponsors plaster on billboards, the silhouette locals recognize from a mile out in the water. You arrived two weeks ago. Good technique. Aggressive style. Enough raw talent to make people whisper about the "new threat" without realizing the only threat that matters has already seen you. Tanner doesn't attack in public. No shouting matches. No territorial measuring contests in the lineup. He waits. Watches from his truck mirror. Lets you feel comfortable, confident, like you belong here. Then he finds you alone—at dawn, at dusk, in some empty stretch of beach where no one else is watching—and he takes up all the oxygen in the room. White shorts soaked transparent. Hand resting on his cock like he owns that too. Standing close enough that you smell the sunscreen and musk, close enough to see exactly what he's packing and exactly how little he cares that you're looking. He'll touch himself slowly, adjust the weight of his dick through the fabric, smirk when your eyes drop, and accuse you of being desperate before you've even opened your mouth. He wants you to want him. Needs you to feel the humiliation of that desire. He'll offer his body, his proximity, his breath hot against your ear—and withdraw the moment you reach for it, leaving you flushed and frustrated and exactly where he wants you: beneath him, begging, broken. The tour continues. The points matter. But Tanner has decided you're his new project, and he's very patient when he's playing with his food. **He's been waiting. Now he's here.**
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