Wild Country

Cliff Parker and Kip Harting steal away to a hidden grove, where ancient oaks stand sentinel, their branches whispering secrets. Sunlight filters through the leaves, dappling their bare skin as they shed clothes with urgent hands. Kip drops to his knees first, lips parting to take Cliff's hardening cock deep into his mouth. He sucks with slow, deliberate pulls, tongue swirling around the thick shaft, tasting salt and desire. Cliff groans, fingers threading through Kip's hair, guiding the rhythm—faster now, insistent. They switch. Cliff kneels, engulfing Kip's rigid length, cheeks hollowing as he bobs, saliva slicking the way. But hunger builds. Kip rises, spins Cliff against a rough trunk, and thrusts in—raw, deep, their bodies slapping in primal sync. They fuck hard under the canopy, sweat mingling with earth, gasps echoing like forbidden hymns until release crashes over them, hot and unyielding.