Aaron grins, slow and sharp, as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. The denim is stiff with sweat and dirt, clinging to his thighs like a second skin. He pops the button with a flick of his wrist, the sound loud in the quiet of the trailer. The zipper follows, teeth parting with a rasp, and then he’s pushing the fabric down, letting it pool around his boots. He doesn’t bother stepping out of them yet. Just stands there, legs planted, cock already thickening against his boxers, the outline obscene.
“Go on,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Look your fill.”
He’s built like a man who’s spent his life hauling, lifting, bending—muscles stacked thick and uneven, the kind that come from work, not a gym. His thighs are tree trunks, the muscles ridged and veined, dark hair curling dense and wild down to his knees. The left one’s got a scar, jagged and white, from a bar fight years back when some idiot thought he could take him. His cock strains against the cotton of his boxers, the head already peeking out, dark and wet, the silver barbell through the crown glinting like a dare. He tugs the waistband down, lets it snap back against his skin, and his cock bounces free, heavy and thick, the veins standing out like ropes. The piercing pulls slightly as it moves, the weight of it making the head dip just a little to the left. His balls hang low and full, the skin loose and dark, the left one just a little lower than the right, marked with a thin, pale line—an old knife cut, poorly stitched. He reaches down, cups them, rolls them in his palm like he’s weighing something precious. “Feel that?” he murmurs. “Full as hell. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all damn day.”
He kicks off his boots, one at a time, the thud of them hitting the floor shaking dust from the rafters. His socks follow, and then he’s stepping out of his jeans, naked except for the piercings and the ink. The tattoo on his ribs—a twist of thorns and bones—shifts as he breathes, the lines blurred where the skin’s stretched over muscle. His stomach isn’t flat; it’s ridged, but there’s a softness there, too, the kind that comes from too many beers and not enough fucks given. His navel is deep, the hair below it dark and coarse, a trail leading down to the nest of curls at the base of his cock. He strokes himself once, slow, his calloused fingers dragging over the barbell, making it glint. “See this?” he says, tapping the metal with his thumb. “Hurts like a bitch when it gets caught on somethin’. Worth it, though.” He gives himself another stroke, his grip tight, and a bead of precum wells up, slick and shiny. He smudges it with his thumb, brings it to his mouth, licks it off with a slow, filthy sound. “Tastes like trouble.”
His hands move up, palms dragging over his chest. His pecs are broad, the muscles defined but not carved, the kind that come from swinging an axe, not posing in a mirror. His nipples are dark, the left one pierced with a thin silver hoop. He pinches it, just hard enough to make his cock twitch, and lets out a low, rough laugh. “Sensitive as hell,” he says. “Bite ‘em, and I’ll return the favor.” His fingers trace the ink on his collarbone—a rune, something old and half-forgotten—and then down to the thicker gauge ring centered in the dip of his throat. He tugs on it, just once, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Had this done drunk,” he admits. “Hurt like a sonofabitch. Still do.” His laugh is a dark, amused thing, the kind that promises he’s got stories you wouldn’t believe.
He turns, slow, letting you see the way his ass flexes as he moves. The muscles there are hard, the skin marked with old burns and newer bruises, the kind that come from rough hands and rougher nights. The silver ring in the dip of his lower back winks as he shifts, the skin around it just a little red, like he’s been playing with it. He reaches back, spreads himself open with one hand, lets you see the dark shadow of his hole, the way it twitches when he presses a finger against it. “Tight as a drum,” he says, voice dropping to a growl. “But not for long.”
His back is a landscape of scars and ink—old burns from bonfires gone wrong, a tattoo of a snake coiled around his shoulder, its fangs sunk into the meat of his deltoid. The muscles there bunch as he reaches up, scrubs a hand through his hair. It’s thick, dark, shot through with silver at the temples, and when he turns back to you, his eyes are black with want.
“Your turn,” he says, and his voice is all heat and hunger, the kind of sound that makes your skin prickle. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands already reaching for your belt. “Let’s see what you’re workin’ with.”
“Go on,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Look your fill.”
He’s built like a man who’s spent his life hauling, lifting, bending—muscles stacked thick and uneven, the kind that come from work, not a gym. His thighs are tree trunks, the muscles ridged and veined, dark hair curling dense and wild down to his knees. The left one’s got a scar, jagged and white, from a bar fight years back when some idiot thought he could take him. His cock strains against the cotton of his boxers, the head already peeking out, dark and wet, the silver barbell through the crown glinting like a dare. He tugs the waistband down, lets it snap back against his skin, and his cock bounces free, heavy and thick, the veins standing out like ropes. The piercing pulls slightly as it moves, the weight of it making the head dip just a little to the left. His balls hang low and full, the skin loose and dark, the left one just a little lower than the right, marked with a thin, pale line—an old knife cut, poorly stitched. He reaches down, cups them, rolls them in his palm like he’s weighing something precious. “Feel that?” he murmurs. “Full as hell. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this all damn day.”
He kicks off his boots, one at a time, the thud of them hitting the floor shaking dust from the rafters. His socks follow, and then he’s stepping out of his jeans, naked except for the piercings and the ink. The tattoo on his ribs—a twist of thorns and bones—shifts as he breathes, the lines blurred where the skin’s stretched over muscle. His stomach isn’t flat; it’s ridged, but there’s a softness there, too, the kind that comes from too many beers and not enough fucks given. His navel is deep, the hair below it dark and coarse, a trail leading down to the nest of curls at the base of his cock. He strokes himself once, slow, his calloused fingers dragging over the barbell, making it glint. “See this?” he says, tapping the metal with his thumb. “Hurts like a bitch when it gets caught on somethin’. Worth it, though.” He gives himself another stroke, his grip tight, and a bead of precum wells up, slick and shiny. He smudges it with his thumb, brings it to his mouth, licks it off with a slow, filthy sound. “Tastes like trouble.”
His hands move up, palms dragging over his chest. His pecs are broad, the muscles defined but not carved, the kind that come from swinging an axe, not posing in a mirror. His nipples are dark, the left one pierced with a thin silver hoop. He pinches it, just hard enough to make his cock twitch, and lets out a low, rough laugh. “Sensitive as hell,” he says. “Bite ‘em, and I’ll return the favor.” His fingers trace the ink on his collarbone—a rune, something old and half-forgotten—and then down to the thicker gauge ring centered in the dip of his throat. He tugs on it, just once, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Had this done drunk,” he admits. “Hurt like a sonofabitch. Still do.” His laugh is a dark, amused thing, the kind that promises he’s got stories you wouldn’t believe.
He turns, slow, letting you see the way his ass flexes as he moves. The muscles there are hard, the skin marked with old burns and newer bruises, the kind that come from rough hands and rougher nights. The silver ring in the dip of his lower back winks as he shifts, the skin around it just a little red, like he’s been playing with it. He reaches back, spreads himself open with one hand, lets you see the dark shadow of his hole, the way it twitches when he presses a finger against it. “Tight as a drum,” he says, voice dropping to a growl. “But not for long.”
His back is a landscape of scars and ink—old burns from bonfires gone wrong, a tattoo of a snake coiled around his shoulder, its fangs sunk into the meat of his deltoid. The muscles there bunch as he reaches up, scrubs a hand through his hair. It’s thick, dark, shot through with silver at the temples, and when he turns back to you, his eyes are black with want.
“Your turn,” he says, and his voice is all heat and hunger, the kind of sound that makes your skin prickle. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands already reaching for your belt. “Let’s see what you’re workin’ with.”