Afterhours

In the dim back corner of the bar, Matt Majors and Dean Tucker sink into the worn leather couch, their bodies close, urgent. Matt's lips wrap around Dean's thick cock, sucking with a slow, teasing pull that draws a low groan from deep in Dean's throat. Dean mirrors him, taking Matt in, tongue swirling over the pulsing head, tasting the salt of his skin. They trade off like that, mouths hot and demanding, cocks throbbing under eager attention. Heat builds. Dean flips Matt over, spreading those firm cheeks to bury his face in. He licks broad and hungry, tongue probing Matt's tight hole, rimming it with filthy precision. Matt arches, pushing back, his moans muffled against the leather. Dean eats him out like a man starved, lapping and sucking until Matt's begging, slick and ready. Dean rises, slicking his cock with spit, and thrusts in deep. He fucks Matt hard, hips snapping, the couch creaking under them. Matt grips the armrest, taking every inch, their rhythm raw and relentless. They switch—Matt on top now, riding Dean with fierce rolls of his hips, pounding down until sweat slicks their skin. More fucking follows, positions blurring in the haze: Dean bent over, Matt behind him, slamming home with grunts that echo softly. They chase the edge, bodies locked in slick collision. Finally, it breaks. Dean pulls out first, stroking himself to a shuddering climax, ropes of cum splattering across Matt's chest in thick, hot bursts. Matt follows seconds later, erupting over Dean's thigh, his release pulsing strong and generous—two peaks of pure, spent ecstasy.