Ritual

Twilight fades into night as Tim Towers pitches their tent by the flickering campfire, the air thick with pine and earth. Boredom stirs, and he spots Ryann Wood emerging from the shadows—a lone hiker, lean and sun-kissed, backpack slung low. Their eyes lock, a spark ignites. Tim pulls her close, hands rough on her hips, lips crashing in a hungry kiss that tastes of trail dust and desire. Clothes shed in a frenzy: her shirt tugs free, revealing pert breasts that he claims with eager mouth; his pants drop, cock springing hard and ready. She drops to her knees first, taking him deep, throat working him with slick, insistent pulls that make his fingers tangle in her hair. He groans, thrusts shallow. Then he flips her onto the sleeping bag, spreads her thighs wide. Her pussy glistens, wet and wanting. He drives in hard, unrestrained, pounding with primal rhythm—short, sharp strokes building to long, grinding ones that bury him to the hilt. She arches, nails raking his back, moans echoing through the trees like a siren's call. They fuck wildly, sweat-slick bodies slapping together, her legs wrapping tight as she comes undone, clenching around him. He follows, spilling hot inside her with a guttural roar. Exhausted, they collapse, limbs entwined. Dawn breaks. Jason stirs in the tent, reaches for Tim. Empty space. His boyfriend vanished without a trace. Those eerie tribal drums from the night before—low, insistent beats cutting through their gasps—now pulse in Jason's mind. Could the wild have claimed more than just their passion?