Spring Training

Jeff Converse pounded the trails, sweat slicking his skin under the late afternoon sun. He spotted Joe Savage jogging the opposite way, their nods quick and knowing. Miles later, Jeff slumped onto his front porch steps, chest heaving, when Joe loped by again. 'Hey, take a breather,' Jeff called, voice rough from the run. Joe slowed, wiped his brow, and joined him. Small talk flowed easy—weather, the burn in their quads—until the air thickened with unspoken heat. Why not, they agreed with a shared grin, drop the pretense and swap some pleasure. Joe's eyes locked on Jeff's, dark promise in them. 'I want to fuck you deep and hard,' he said, low and direct, 'but first, you get on your knees and work me right.' Jeff obliged, mouth eager, tongue tracing every ridge until Joe groaned and pulled him up. They stumbled inside, clothes shed in a frenzy. Joe bent Jeff over the couch, slicked up, and drove in—slow at first, then relentless, hips snapping with raw need. Jeff gasped, pushed back, the stretch turning to fire. When Joe finally spilled, shuddering, Jeff flipped the script. He claimed his turn, pinning Joe down and thrusting home, their bodies slick and urgent until release claimed them both.