Iron Will

Trace Henson sidles past Chip Noll's sweat-damp jockstrap, fingers grazing the taut fabric before he claims that firm, unyielding ass. He presses in slow, deliberate, parting Chip with a slick thrust that steals the breath from both. Chip arches, muscles clenching around the invasion, a low groan escaping as Trace sets a rhythm—deep, relentless strokes that build like a storm. Sweat slicks their skin; Trace grips hips, pulling Chip back onto every plunge. The pressure coils tight in Chip's core, until it snaps. He shudders, spilling his load in hot pulses, ropes of come streaking the sheets while Trace drives him through the ecstasy.