Hockey Players Only Matt & Marcus McNeill Do It
Hockey hunk Marcus McNeill and assistant coach Only Matt enjoy a gym-based power play where benching frustration turns into raw bareback release.
Marcus McNeill’s skates sit abandoned by the locker room door, his hockey jersey clinging to his sweat-drenched torso. Benched for the big game, his rage simmers like a kettle about to boil over. But Only Matt—the grizzled, bearded assistant coach with a body like a bear’s winter coat—knows exactly how to redirect that energy. “Tense, kid?” Matt rasps, his voice a gravelly dare as they’re left alone in the fluorescent-lit weight room. Marcus doesn’t answer. He grabs Matt’s head, shoves his face into his crotch, and unzips. “Open up,” he growls. Matt obeys, his thick beard scratching Marcus’s thighs as his lips wrap around the helmeted head of his cock.
Marcus fists Matt’s hair, pistoning his hips with brutal rhythm. “Swallow it,” he snarls, his voice echoing off the dumbbell racks. When he yanks free, Matt’s mouth glistens with spit and pre-cum. Without a word, Marcus spins him around, bending him over the incline bench. His tongue slams into Matt’s hole, rimming him like a man possessed, his nose buried in the coarse fur of Matt’s ass. Matt groans, his fists gripping the padded leather—“Your turn,” he rasps, flipping Marcus onto his back. Now it’s Matt’s tongue ravaging Marcus’s crack, his beard scraping raw skin as he licks deeper, harder, until Marcus’ moans morph into primal grunts.
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The power shift is instant. Marcus flips Matt back, his cock aligning with the older man’s twitching ass. “No lube. No mercy,” he barks, driving in with a single, savage thrust. Matt roars, his fists slamming against the floor as Marcus pummels him, each stroke a visceral explosion of muscle and sweat. The weight room becomes their arena—plates clattering, chains rattling as Marcus lifts Matt’s legs onto his shoulders, fucking him raw with the precision of an Olympian. “Who’s your coach now?” Marcus snarls, his fingers digging into Matt’s waist. “You are, baby. You always were,” Matt gasps, his beard soaked with sweat as he fists his own cock.
When Marcus’ climax erupts, it’s volcanic—a tidal wave of cum flooding Matt’s guts as his head thrashes back, guttural and unrecognizable. Matt follows, his cumshot splattering across his chest in thick, white streaks. Collapsing onto Matt’s heaving body, Marcus grins, breathless. “Next game? Bench me again.” Matt laughs, rough and ragged. “Just bring your duffel. We’ll call it practice.”
