The Guy Next Door

In the dim glow of the bathroom, Musclestud Rip Stone pins Brett Winters against the cool tile wall. Their mouths crash together, hungry and urgent. Rip drops to his knees, unzips Brett's jeans, and takes his thick cock deep into his throat. Brett groans, fingers tangling in Rip's hair, thrusting slow at first, then harder. Saliva drips, breaths ragged—pure, raw need. They stumble into the bedroom, clothes shedding like old skin, bodies slick with sweat. Brett bends over the bed, ass up, inviting. Rip grabs the lube, slicks his fingers, and slides them in, stretching that tight hole with expert twists. Brett moans, pushing back, begging for more. Rip fetches the dildos from the nightstand—first the slim one, easing it in to open him wide, then the thicker beast, pounding rhythmically as Brett writhes, cock leaking pre-cum onto the sheets. It's a teasing prelude, building that exquisite ache. Finally, Rip can't wait. He positions himself, cock throbbing, and drives in deep. Solid, relentless fucking follows—Rip's hips slamming forward, balls slapping skin, each thrust hitting that sweet spot. Brett cries out, clenching around him, lost in the heat. They chase release together, bodies locked in a primal dance, until ecstasy shatters them both.