Stroke

Daniel Montes wiped grease from his hands, his mechanic's shirt clinging to his broad shoulders as he popped the hood of Jesse Martin's car. Jesse sat in the driver's seat, heart pounding, eyes fixed on Daniel's strong form bent over the engine. A wicked fantasy seized Jesse: Daniel unzipping his jeans right there, thrusting his thick, curved cock through the open window like an urgent invitation. Jesse's mouth watered. He leaned in, greedy lips wrapping around the hot shaft, sucking with fervor as Daniel gripped the doorframe and fucked his throat in steady, claiming strokes. Saliva dripped, mixing with the garage's oily scent, while Jesse's hands clutched the wheel for balance. Daniel pulled out, eyes dark with hunger. He hauled Jesse from the car, slamming him against the warm metal side. Pants shoved down, Daniel drove in deep, hips snapping with raw power, stretching Jesse wide. Then, flipping him onto the hood, Daniel pinned him there—legs splayed, body arched—pounding relentlessly, each thrust a thunderous claim that left Jesse gasping, marked inside and out, a bottom boy utterly wrecked in the best way. Reality crashed back. Jesse blinked, alone in the driver's seat, his hand already fisting his aching cock. He jerked fast, breaths ragged, until he erupted—a hefty spurt arcing across the dash, hot and messy. From under the hood, Daniel watched every twitch, his own release squirting free in thick ropes, painting the engine block like a secret signature.