Route 69

Fane Roberts and Dustin Holloway nursed their sputtering car across the endless desert on Route 66, engines gasping like lovers on the edge. Relief hit when a solitary gas station shimmered into view. There stood Nate Stetson, the attendant—smoking hot, his 70s handlebar mustache curling like a promise—ready to pump their tank full. The guys nodded eagerly, parched for more than fuel. Nate eyed the overheating beast and called to pop the hood. He and mechanic Johnny V peered inside, grease-smeared hands probing the mystery. No dipstick in sight. Johnny fired up the engine and eased the car into the dim garage, where their banter turned filthy, tires and torque twisting into innuendo. Nate's pulse revved hard. The studs locked lips, shirts flying off in a frenzy. Fane and Dustin watched, jaws slack, as Nate's cock stood rigid, begging for service. Johnny dropped to his knees, mouth watering for that thick shaft. He swallowed it deep, tongue swirling like a piston in overdrive. Nate groaned, hips bucking, but he craved his turn. He tugged Johnny up, then bent him over the hood. Nate's tongue dove into that tight ass, rimming with slick, urgent laps until Johnny quivered, primed. Sensing the green light, Nate gripped his cock and thrust in—deep into that snug cylinder. It fit like sin, Johnny moaning approval with each powerful slam. Nate throttled him against the car, bodies slick and slamming. Craving more, he pulled out and laid Johnny flat on the oil-stained floor. Sliding back in, Nate pumped relentlessly, chasing the spark. Johnny shattered first, blowing his load across his chiseled abs in hot, sticky ropes. Nate followed suit, yanking free to paint those ripped muscles with his own warm flood.