Woody Fox bends low over the rough bark of a fallen log, his ass raised as Seth Santoro grips his hips and drives into him hard, the damp tent straining against the tight fit. Santoro’s fingers dig into Woody’s flanks while his mouth seals around his throat, the outdoor air thick with the sounds of wet slaps and ragged breaths. Behind them, the woods swallow the noise, but the way Seth’s beard scrapes Woody’s neck as he pulls back only to slam home again makes the trees feel like witnesses.
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