George Basten grips Marty Love’s hips hard as he drives deep, the woods around them silent except for the wet slap of flesh. Marty’s blond hair is slick with sweat, his muscular back arched under Basten’s grip, while the rifle slung over his shoulder waits unused. One moment he’s on his knees, tongue deep in Basten’s asshole, the next he’s spread wide for fingers that probe relentlessly before the helmeted man shoves inside. The tactical vest stays on, no time to strip, just the rough fabric against skin as Basten takes him from behind, the rifle’s stock digging into the dirt.
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