Ranch Hands

Jesse Santana grips the tailgate under a sky that burns white. He wears only a torn flannel vest, boots, and black latex gloves that shine when they catch the light. Billy Berlin waits on all fours, bare ass pale against the truck bed. Jesse slicks two fingers, then three, sliding them deep. Billy pushes back, hungry, and Jesse keeps going—knuckles, wrist, the full hand disappears. The tight ring sucks at his forearm. Jesse’s cock stands rigid, drops already hanging from the tip. He drives his arm deeper, twisting slow, watching Billy’s hole swallow him to the elbow. He flips Billy onto his back, boots in the air, and punches back inside, twisting at full depth while he leans down and swallows Billy’s cock to the root. Billy’s moans turn raw. Jesse works both holes—mouth and fist—until Billy’s breathing breaks. Then Jesse pulls his arm halfway out, lines his cock up, and drives in alongside his wrist. He fists and fucks at the same time, feeling his own dick slide past his gloved knuckles. Billy’s hand flies to his shaft; three quick strokes and he sprays across his own chest. The sight drags Jesse over the edge—he yanks free, rips off one glove, and paints Billy’s stretched hole with thick white ropes.