Coach My Hole

Wrex Wylde and Micah Martinez came out of practice loaded. Micah drops fast, throat open, taking Wrex to the root. Wrex grips his skull, shoves him all the way down until Micah’s nose is buried against his heavy, sweat-heavy sack, eyes fluttering as he inhales the thick, game-day funk. Wrex is no beginner bottom. He spins, folds, and offers his hole like he’s been waiting all season for it. Micah’s fist sinks in without resistance—then the second follows, gliding past stretched ring into warm, greedy space. When he pulls back, Wrex’s rosebud flares fat and slick, pulsing for more. Micah drives both fists back in, twists, works the pink flesh like he owns it. Still not enough. Micah lines his boot sole at the gaping entrance and drives his foot straight up Wrex’s gut. Wrex howls, jerks his pierced cock in time with each thrust, balls swinging, breath ragged. The pressure builds until he can’t hold it; thick ropes paint the floor while Micah’s foot stays buried to the ankle.