Shattering Entry

Johnny Wallace and Patrick O'Connor, burly movers hauling boxes through the dim corridors of an old warehouse, shoved open the storage room door. It slammed shut behind them with a mocking click, the lock engaging like fate's cruel joke. No windows. No way out. Just stacks of forgotten crates and the faint hum of a distant fan. Sweat beaded on their brows, shirts clinging to broad backs. 'Well, shit,' Patrick muttered, slumping against a shelf. Johnny grinned, that sly prison-yard smirk. 'Got a way to kill time, Paddy. Learned this in the joint.' He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, pants dropping to his ankles. His cock, thick and already half-hard, sprang free. Patrick watched, eyes widening, as Johnny bent at the waist, flexible as a man who'd twisted his body in ways most couldn't imagine. With a low grunt, he guided his shaft backward, the head pressing against his own tight ring. It yielded. Inch by inch, he took himself in, ass clenching around his length in a self-fucking rhythm that made Patrick's breath hitch. Veins bulged. Precum glistened. Johnny's face twisted in raw pleasure, a moan escaping his lips like a secret finally whispered. Patrick's cock throbbed in his jeans, demanding attention. He stripped fast, hands fumbling, joining the heat. Fingers explored first—Johnny's on Patrick, probing deep, stretching him open with callused precision. Then lips, tongues, a frenzy of mouths devouring sweat-slick skin. Patrick dropped to all fours, ass up, begging. Johnny slicked his cock with spit, thrust in hard. But that wasn't enough. Eyes scanning the dim room, Johnny spotted it: a thick dildo, forgotten among the boxes, veined silicone gleaming like an invitation. He grabbed it, lubed it with their mingled spit, and pressed it alongside his own pulsing shaft. Patrick's hole stretched wide, two invaders claiming him at once. Johnny rocked forward, the dildo and his cock grinding together inside that vise-tight heat. Patrick gasped, body arching, every nerve alight. They moved as one, relentless, the storage room echoing with slaps of flesh and guttural cries, locked in more than just a door.