Nailed

Outside the garage, three grease monkeys—Jay Armstrong, Manuel Torres, and Johnny Wallace—lean against the oil-stained workbench, cracking open cold beers during their break. Laughter rumbles low as the bottles empty, the alcohol loosening limbs and igniting that familiar spark. Tipsy now, cheeks flushed, the three horny studs turn on each other with raw, unpolished hunger. Jay grabs Manuel first, pinning him against the truck hood, lips crashing in a bruising kiss while rough hands yank at belts and zippers. Johnny circles in, shedding his shirt to reveal sweat-glistened muscles, his fingers tracing down Jay's back before joining the fray. They tumble into the shadows, bodies grinding, cocks springing free and hard—Jay's thick length thrusting into Manuel's eager mouth as Johnny kneels behind, tongue teasing then breaching with slick insistence. Grunts echo like engines revving, the three working men fucking with the fierce rhythm of men who've earned their release, sweat and come mingling on the concrete floor.