Man Up

Conner Habib ducks into the latrine, convinced the thin walls shield his secret indulgence. He strokes himself fiercely to the crumpled porn rag in his grip, lost in the haze. But Trent Locke picks up on the muffled rhythm, that telltale hitch of breath behind the stall door. He shoulders it open and freezes—Conner's hand frozen mid-pull, cock throbbing in the open air. Shock flickers across Conner's face, then melts into hunger. This isn't intrusion; it's invitation. He drops to his knees, eyes locked on Trent's bulging crotch, and frees the thick shaft. His mouth engulfs it, throat stretching to take every inch, lips sealed tight as he bobs with greedy precision. Trent growls low, fingers tangling in Conner's hair. He hauls him up, spins him against the partition, and claims his turn. Trent's tongue lashes Conner's rigid length, sucking with a fervor that draws whimpers from deep in Conner's chest. He doesn't stop there—drops lower, spreads those firm cheeks, and dives in. His tongue circles Conner's hole, probing wet and insistent, loosening him with lavish strokes. Then Trent stands, lines up, and thrusts home. He pounds fast and furious, hips snapping like a piston, the stall echoing with slick slaps and Conner's ragged moans. But Trent craves more. He eases off, guides Conner to sit on the toilet seat, and straddles him. Lowering onto that stiff cock, Trent rides with abandon—up and down, grinding deep, his own dick leaking pre-cum across Conner's abs. The rhythm builds, sweat-slicked bodies grinding closer to the edge. They spill out of the stall, urgency propelling them. Trent braces against the cool porcelain of the urinal, ass arched back. Conner slots in again, fucking with renewed force, balls slapping against skin. He can't hold—pulls free at the last second and erupts, ropes of cum painting Trent's back and cheeks in hot streaks. Trent twists, hand flying over his cock, and unleashes his own load, spurting thick across the tile in pulsing jets.