Down Home

Under the blistering afternoon sun, Jeff Hammond slips into the river and snorkels toward Mitch Taylor's boat, moored lazily in the current. He interrupts Mitch's sun-drenched solo session, hand pumping steadily over his hardening cock. Mitch startles, eyes widening at Jeff's lithe, water-slicked body emerging like a siren's call. Arousal surges through him, raw and insistent. 'Come home with me,' Mitch says, voice husky. 'Shower first. Then you and me.' In the steaming cascade of the shower, Mitch kneels before Jeff's sculpted form, palms gliding over the firm curve of his ass, kneading the taut flesh. He takes Jeff's massive, thick cock into his mouth, sucking with reverent hunger, tongue tracing every ridge and vein. Mitch explores Jeff's chiseled muscles—abs rippling, chest heaving—lapping at the salt-kissed skin with slow, deliberate strokes. He shifts lower, from that throbbing shaft to the tight pucker of Jeff's ass, licking and probing, warming the ring of muscle until it yields, fingers slipping in to stretch and prepare. Jeff's breath hitches, desire igniting like dry tinder. They stumble to the bedroom, towels discarded, bodies colliding. Jeff bends Mitch over the bed and drives in deep, plowing with relentless zeal. Each thrust—powerful, unyielding—rocks Mitch forward, skin slapping against skin. Deeper they go, rhythm building, hips snapping in frantic sync. Thrust after merciless thrust hurtles the two studs toward the edge, abandon beckoning. At the peak, they shatter together, cocks pulsing in a spectacular gush of cum, ropes splattering across sheets and stomachs in hot, sticky release.