“You weren’t supposed to use it for evil, Paul.”
“What, what, who’s there?” Paul Pierce didn’t hear the densely built man step in the door of his suite. He reached for the switch for the lamp on his bedside table, his hand groping his alarm clock and phone.
“The Tebow. When I taught you it, you weren’t supposed to use it for evil.” Paul finally found the light illuminating the muscular frame of Tim Tebow in his doorway.
“Oh Tim, I didn’t see you there. Why didn’t you knock?” asked Paul as he rolled out of bed. Paul approached Tebow and reached for his hand. Tebow recoiled.
“No, don’t touch me Paul. I mean it. I taught you how to Tebow because I thought you’d use it for good. Not for taunting Atlanta fans. You used it for evil.”
“But Timmy, I am evil,” smirked Paul Pierce as he pressed his saggy body up against Tebow’s adonis form. “I want to fuck the Jesus out of you.”
“I promised I wouldn’t have sex before mariage,” whispered Tebow, “with a woman.” Tebow raised his strong, youthful quarterback hands and cupped Paul’s menopausal pectorals. Tim Tebow pressed his lips against Paul Pierce’s, then parted them to allow the Celtic’s tongue to explore his mouth.
Paul Pierce worked his hand into Tim Tebow’s pocket, then slid his mouth off of Tebow’s soft prayer kissed lips onto his muscle roped neck, right below Tebow’s ear. “Let’s see if you can be a pocket passer,” he joked. “I want you to Teblow me.” Tim’s penis hardened in his jeans at the thought of taking Paul Pierce in his mouth. “Then, I’m going to Pierce you.” Tim Tebow let out a light whimper at the prospect, and rocked his hips towards Paul’s.