Spring Training

In the steamy haze of the locker room, Coach Tom Mitchell drills Scott Avery on handball basics, his voice steady and commanding. They strip down and head to the showers, water cascading over their sweat-slicked bodies. Scott's eyes drop, lingering on Tom's thick, rock-hard cock jutting out like a promise. 'Damn, Coach, that's a big one,' Scott mutters, voice thick with admiration. Tom smirks, stepping closer under the spray. 'All because of that nice ass of yours, Scott. Gets me every time.' No pause, no second thoughts—Tom takes charge. 'Bend over,' he orders, and Scott complies, bracing against the tiled wall, water streaming down his back. Tom grips Scott's hips, slides in deep with a single, firm thrust, filling him completely. Scott gasps, pushing back, their rhythm building—short, sharp slaps of skin echoing off the walls, then longer, grinding strokes that make Scott moan low and needy. Unseen in the shadows, Coach Bull Matthews watches from the doorway, arms crossed, expression neutral. He observes every thrust, every quiver, but stays silent, a ghost in the mist, as Tom pounds into Scott with raw, unyielding hunger.