The Plowboys

Alexander Straus stepped into the dim barn, the air thick with the scent of hay and fresh milk. There stood Emil Kys, hands steady on the cow's swollen udders, squeezing rhythmic streams into the pail. No one else around, just the low murmur of the animals. Emil's eyes flicked up, a sly grin pulling at his lips. He beckoned Alexander closer with a tilt of his head, the promise of something raw and urgent hanging between them. Alexander's pulse quickened. He crossed the straw-strewn floor in three strides, pulse hammering. Emil dropped to his knees without a word, yanking Alexander's belt free. His mouth engulfed Alexander's cock—fierce, unyielding—tongue swirling hot and demanding along the shaft, sucking deep until Alexander's hips bucked against the pull. Heat surged through Alexander, a wildfire he couldn't contain. He hauled Emil up by the shirt, dragging him out to the sun-warmed porch. There, under the open sky, he shoved Emil down onto the rough wood planks, ass up and exposed. Alexander thrust in hard, claiming that tight man hole with a single, brutal stroke. Emil groaned, arching back to meet him, the slap of skin echoing like a private thunder. They shifted then—Emil flipped onto his back, legs hooked over Alexander's shoulders. Alexander drove deeper, pounding with a rhythm that blurred the line between need and frenzy, each plunge stretching and filling Emil completely. Sweat slicked their bodies, breaths ragged and intertwined. The edge hit Alexander like a storm breaking. He pulled out, fisting his cock as ropes of cum erupted across Emil's bare chest, painting the pale skin in hot, sticky white.