Fist Bus #02

On a dark desert highway, wind cutting through the cab, Brian Bonds hunts the night for warm flesh. He spots Drew Dixon up ahead—solid Brit frame, walking alone, miles from home. They waste no time. Inside the bus the leather bed waits behind black glass. Both down to jockstraps, they breathe heat into the small space. Drew drops first, throat opening around Brian’s thick cock, spit shining on the shaft. He doesn’t get to finish the job; Brian flips, spreads, and pulls the younger man’s face to his hole. Hungry tongue meets sweat. Black gloves snap on, the bottle of J-lube pops open. One finger, two, then the slow push deeper while eighteen-wheelers rumble past on the other side of the tinted pane. Drew’s wrist twists, opens, sinks. Brian’s load hits the leather in thick ropes. Breathing hard, Brian switches gloves and eases Drew onto his back. The bus rolls toward neon. Right now, inside these walls, Drew’s stretched hole matters more than any city lights.