Ranch Hands

The sun dips low over the ranch, casting long shadows as Brett Ford, Tony Piagi, and Chris Rock wrap up their chores. Dust clings to their sweat-slicked skin, muscles aching from the day's grind. They slump onto hay bales in the barn, eyes locking with a shared hunger that crackles like dry lightning. Horniness surges through them, thick and urgent, cocks straining against denim. Brett moves first, yanking Tony's belt free with a growl. Tony's shaft springs out, thick and veined, begging for attention. Brett's mouth engulfs it, sucking hard and fast, tongue swirling over the swollen head. Chris watches, hand fisting his own bulge, then dives in, lips claiming Brett's neck while freeing his pants. Tony groans, fingers tangling in Brett's hair, thrusting deeper into that hot, wet pull. They tangle like wild stallions, positions shifting in a blur. Chris bends Tony over a saddle, slamming into him with raw force, hips snapping in rhythm. Tony's cries echo off the rafters as Brett kneels beneath, lapping at his balls, then rising to feed his cock into Tony's eager mouth. Sweat beads and drips. Grunts mix with the slick sounds of flesh on flesh. They switch—Brett pounding Chris from behind while Chris devours Tony, the frenzy building, heads spinning in a haze of lust. Tension coils tight, unbreakable. They erupt together, bodies shuddering. Brett pulls out, ropes of jism arcing across Chris's back. Tony spills into Chris's throat, hot pulses flooding him. Chris follows, shooting streams over Tony's chest, marking him in sticky white triumph. They collapse, spent and glistening, breaths ragged in the cooling air.