Locker room fucking

She leaned back against the cool metal lockers, knees still hot from practice. His hand slid down the front of her shorts and straight into soft, thick curls—girl doesn’t shave squat. Two fingers spread her open, thumb pressing her swollen clit like he knew the spot. She bit her lip, hips bucking into his hand. He yanked her tiny shorts all the way down to her ankles and spun her, face-first, cheek on cool steel. His cock—hard already—slapped between her thighs and found its mark, sliding inside her slick, gripping heat. Steady slam, skin slapping skin, her fuzzy pussy making noisy, wet little thwacks. She braced, pushing back, letting the pressure sit deep in her guts. Sweat dotted her back. Balls smacked her ass every pull-out. Locker room air felt humid and sharp from the shower spray; felt nasty, felt right. When he switched angles and pumped her relentless, she came around his thick dick with this tight, open-mouthed curse she’d learned in the squad’s huddle room—enough dirty girl vocabulary to make the baseball coach blush if he’d walked in.