Pitching Tents

By the crackling fire's glow, who needs clothes for warmth? Woody Fox and Jacob Peterson, stripped to nothing but snug white briefs, lock in a fierce, hungry kiss. Their cocks swell, straining the fabric, until it peels away like a second skin. Jacob drops to his knees, yanking Woody's thick shaft free and swallowing it whole. Saliva slicks every inch as he sucks, deep and devoted. Woody lifts his arms high, baring those lush, hairy pits, his abs rippling like carved marble under the flames' flicker. They switch, Woody's turn now—throat yielding to Jacob's massive length. Lips tease the swollen head while his fist pumps the root, a symphony of grip and glide. He spins Jacob around, burying his face in that firm, inviting ass, tongue lashing until it's slick and begging. Jacob arches back, impaling himself on Woody's cock in a frantic doggy rut. Woody thrusts harder, hips snapping with raw, athlete's fury. They tumble onto the sleeping bag; Jacob mounts him, riding deep, ass clenching around every plunging inch. He flips onto his back, legs hoisted high, welcoming Woody missionary-style. Jacob's rigid dick thwacks his belly with each pounding drive. Woody nails the sweet spots, and Jacob's hand flies over his shaft until ropes of cum erupt across his torso, hot and sticky. Woody rises, stroking fast, unleashing his own torrent—jets of white seed splashing over Jacob's already drenched skin. Jacob leans in, lapping the final pearls from Woody's tip, then seals it with a cum-smeared kiss.