Ripe For Harvest

Alan Reeves wanders along the riverbank and spots Eric Stone, rod in hand, fishing under the midday sun. Sweat beads on Eric's brow; the fish aren't biting, and frustration simmers in his eyes. He turns to Alan, hunger flashing across his face, craving a different kind of catch. Alan drops to his knees without a word, taking Eric's mammoth cock deep into his throat, lips stretching wide as he works the thick shaft with eager suction. Clothes hit the dirt fast. Shirts peel off, pants drop. The two studs circle each other, hands roaming, mouths hungry. Alan laps at Eric's pulsing length, tongue tracing veins like rivers on a map. Eric grips Alan's firm rod, stroking slow then fast, balls tightening in his fist. They trade pulls and sucks, cocks throbbing in the open air, the river's murmur their only witness. Heat builds, unbearable. Eric spins Alan around, slicking his hole with spit. He slides in deep, that pole filling him inch by relentless inch. Rhythmic thrusts build—steady, then savage—hips snapping with raw intent. Eric flips Alan onto his back, legs hooked over shoulders, pounding harder, deeper, sweat-slick skin slapping. Alan's cries echo off the water. They crest together, bodies arching, each man unleashing a fountain of cum that arcs hot and wild across heated flesh.