Splash Shots

Kurt Marshall's voice trembles with need after practice. 'But I just want to please you, Coach,' he protests, eyes locked on young instructor Tom Mitchell. Tom smirks, sweat still glistening on his skin. 'You might actually improve that backhand if you paid less attention to the bulge in my shorts.' Before the word 'zipper' escapes Tom's lips, Kurt yanks it down. He frees the tennis pro's thick cock and swallows it whole, throat working with expert rhythm. Tom's hips buck. Precum slicks Kurt's tongue, a salty promise of what's building. But Kurt craves deeper. He rises, turns, and plants his tight ass right onto Tom's stiff length. Tom grips Kurt's hips and pounds in, relentless thrusts echoing across the empty court. They chase release together—grunts turning to gasps, bodies slick and spent. Only when both have spilled their loads do they collapse, utterly satisfied.