Spring Training

Bull Matthews spots Tom Mitchell across the bustling cafeteria and strides over, his voice low and edged with mischief. 'Saw you in the showers the other day,' he mutters, eyes gleaming. Tom smirks, unfazed. Just then, Tad Brady saunters in, tray in hand. Tom leans in closer to Bull. 'Fucked Tad last week. Tight as hell.' Bull's gaze snaps to Tad, locking on with raw intent. Tad freezes, his eyes dropping inevitably to the thick bulge straining Bull's shorts—a blatant promise that stirs heat low in his gut. He wants it. Wants to wrap his lips around that cock and suck until Bull groans. Tom notices, grins wickedly, and twists the lock on the cafeteria door with a decisive click. No interruptions now. They guide Tad to the nearest table, his body pliant under their hands. He lands on his back amid scattered trays, legs spreading wide as they strip him bare. Tad works them both with eager skill—first Tom's familiar shaft sliding deep into his ass, then Bull's massive length claiming his mouth, thrusting with urgent rhythm. Soda cans tip over. Chip bags crumple under elbows. Tad takes it all, the perfect bottom boy, lost in the slick, pounding frenzy of their shared hunger.