Dirk Caber and Mike Maverick

Dirk Caber’s muscular frame is bound tight to the tree, his dark hair damp from the woods as Mike Maverick kneels before him, fingers stretching his hole open before the slow, deliberate thrust of a fist. The ropes bite into Caber’s wrists, holding him still while Maverick’s clean-shaven jaw works between his thighs, the military precision of the restraint matching the brutal intimacy of what follows. No words, just the wet sound of skin and the way the trees swallow their breath.