Maintaining The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Jmac walks in like he just stepped off a magazine cover. Nothing but skin and muscle. Kyler Quinn kneels with oil and small, eager hands. She slicks every line of his abs, his arms, then she slides lower. Nails scrape, palms glide, lotion shines on sweat-warmed skin. He sits, legs spread, and Kyler starts on his feet. She presses, twists, and kisses the arch, then takes each toe and pulls it between her lips, sucks deep. Spit trails down his calves as she works her tongue between the toes. He stands her up, spins her. She bends over the table. Mouth wide, she licks from sack to shaft until he’s throbbing, then dives under and tongues his hole in slow, wet circles. She rims him hard, breath hot, tongue insistent. Jmac pulls her hair, thrusts into her mouth, then flips her onto her back. He spears her in one shove, fucks fast, hips slapping. He spins her onto her stomach, takes her sideways, then from behind with both hands under her jaw. Each thrust knocks the breath from her lungs. She eats him again—face down, cheeks spread—then drops flat on the mat, stomach bare. He stands over her, strokes once, and spills in thick white ropes that stripe across her navel and run down to her hip. After, he wipes off, looks into the lens, and smiles like the day belongs to him.