Wild Country

Mark Andrews and Paul Edwards, rugged lumbermen with sweat-glistened muscles, pushed through the thick underbrush and froze at the edge of a sun-dappled clearing. There stood Chuck Hunter, trousers pooled at his ankles, his thick cock gripped firmly in one callused hand. He stroked with deliberate rhythm, eyes half-lidded in raw pleasure. The sight hit them like a spark to dry tinder. Lust surged through their veins. They stripped off shirts and belts, boots thudding against the earth as they closed in. Mark dropped to his knees first, mouth watering, and engulfed Chuck's throbbing shaft, tongue swirling around the swollen head while Paul pressed in from behind, grinding his own rigid length against Chuck's ass. Grunts echoed through the trees. Hands roamed—gripping hips, pinching nipples, fingers probing tight entrances. Chuck bucked, fucking Mark's throat deep, then spun to take Paul's cock between his lips, sucking with hungry fervor. Bodies tangled in a frenzy of slick skin and urgent thrusts. Paul bent Chuck over a fallen log, slamming into him with powerful strokes that made the man moan around Mark's pistoning dick. Sweat poured. Veins bulged. Climax crashed over them in waves—hot spurts painting chests and faces, ropes of sticky cum arcing through the air until all three collapsed, gleaming and spent in the dappled light.