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Dylan Hauser, that scruffy, built stud, trudges along the trail with his buddy Connor Patricks, a hot blond whose easy grin lights up the path. They pause at a weathered bench, sweat-slicked and breathless from the climb. Connor's throat burns—his water's gone. Dylan smirks, eyes glinting. 'I'll share mine,' he says, voice low and teasing, 'but you'll have to earn it.' His hand drops to his crotch, bold as the mountain air. Connor's eyes widen, then spark with hunger. No hesitation; he drops to his knees, eager to pay the toll. Dylan tilts his bottle, cool water cascading down his chiseled chest, tracing rivulets over taut muscle to pool at his thickening cock. Connor leans in, tongue darting to lap every drop, savoring the salty mix of sweat and stream. He takes Dylan deep, lips stretching around the pulsing length, throat working in rhythmic pulls that draw a guttural groan from above. Heat builds like a summer storm. Dylan spins, bracing against the bench, and pours water down the curve of his back. It snakes into the cleft of his ass. Connor dives in, mouth hungry on that tight hole, tongue probing with wet, insistent strokes. The wilderness watches, silent witness to their raw unraveling. Fire ignites. Connor stretches out on the bench, head tipped back in invitation. Dylan straddles him, thrusting into that welcoming mouth, hips snapping with feral rhythm. But fairness calls—Dylan slides down, claiming Connor's hardness in a scorching sixty-nine, the trail forgotten as they devour each other under the open sky. Climax crashes swift and fierce. Dylan rears up, ropes of hot seed spilling across Connor's heaving chest, marking him in sticky triumph. Connor follows in a heartbeat, his own creamy load erupting, painting the air with their shared release.