Manhandlers

Under the relentless sun, Jeff Palmer, the pool boy, skims leaves from the turquoise water, his muscles flexing with each deliberate stroke. Then he spots him—Derek Cameron, sprawled on a lounge chair, hand wrapped around his thick cock, stroking slow and shameless. A sly grin tugs at Jeff's lips. He sets down his net, saunters over, and kneels between Derek's spread thighs. No words needed; Jeff's mouth descends, hot and insistent, swallowing Derek's length to the root. He works him masterfully—tongue swirling the swollen head, lips sucking tight, fingers teasing Derek's heavy balls. Derek arches, gasps, his blond hair damp with sweat. Jeff doesn't relent, bobbing faster, deeper, until Derek shudders and erupts, ropes of cum flooding Jeff's throat. But Jeff's not done. He flips Derek onto his stomach, spreads those firm cheeks, and dives in with his tongue, rimming him slick and thorough. Derek moans into the cushion, hips bucking. Jeff rises, lubes his own rigid shaft, and thrusts home—deep, pounding strokes that echo off the patio. He grips Derek's hips, drives harder, until they both unravel, spent and soaked in the afternoon heat.