Compulsion: He's Gotta Have It

Steve Fox can't resist those sultry '900' lines, the ones whispering promises of steamy hookups with ripped guys ready for raw action. Luck smiles on him tonight. His doorbell rings, and there stands Jack Dillon, a muscled Adonis hauling a bulging bag stuffed with fresh latex toys, each one begging to plunder tight depths. Steve drops to his knees, throat eager. He engulfs Jack's thick, throbbing cock, swirling his tongue along the veined shaft until it pulses hot against his lips. Lower he goes, lapping at those heavy balls, sucking them in with greedy pulls that send Jack's hips bucking wild. The stud's breath turns ragged, a frenzy building like a storm about to break. Jack flips the script. He bends Steve over, spreads those firm cheeks, and dives in—his tongue tracing the puckered rim, probing deep with wet, insistent laps that make Steve moan and arch. Fingers follow, slick and probing, twisting inside to loosen the ring of muscle. But Jack craves more stretch. He grabs a fat dildo from the bag, coats it in lube, and eases it in slow, watching Steve's hole swallow every inch. Bigger ones come next, plunging and twisting, opening him wide until he's gaping, slick, and desperate. Finally, Jack positions his own rigid cock at the entrance. He thrusts home, burying himself balls-deep in one fierce shove. Steve gasps, gripping the sheets as Jack pounds away—relentless, skin-slapping rhythm that rattles the bedframe. Sweat slicks their bodies. Jack's hips snap harder, chasing the edge, until they both shatter: Steve clenching around him in pulsing waves, Jack flooding deep with thick ropes of cum.