Militia

Burly Heath Jordan locks Shawn Wolfe in a crushing bear hug. Shawn doesn't fight it. Instead, he rips open Heath's shirt, exposing that furry, powerful chest. His hands slide back, clutching each muscled ass cheek like a prize. Heath pulls his tongue free from Shawn's mouth and traces a slow, teasing path downward—over the pulse in Shawn's neck, across those hairy nipples, down the happy trail, straight to his cock, rigid and waiting. Heath's mouth engulfs it with long, deep pulls, leaving the thick shaft slick and shining. He pauses, tongue tip hovering at the head, eyes lifting for a nod. Shawn grants it: a gentle pat on the head, then his own tongue diving into Heath's ass. The black jockstrap's straps frame those pale, round buttocks perfectly, drawing the eye to that tight, inviting hole. Soon enough, Shawn uses the waistband as a handle, a rein to control the ride as he pounds Heath doggy-style. They flip to missionary, putting Heath's rock-hard cock and that bearish allure on full display. Bodies strain together, muscles flexing and bulging, sweat beading on their skin like dew on heated stone. They erupt in waves—Heath spilling across his own belly, Shawn painting Heath's beard and chest. Heath leans in, licks a few stray drops from Shawn's cock, and they seal it with a kiss.