The parched earth cracked like ancient pottery underfoot. Nothing grew here anymore, not even stubborn weeds pushing through concrete.
Biff rolled onto his side, sweat cooling on his bare shoulders. The dream clung to him: Tank’s callused hand resting on his shoulder at the construction site, that low chuckle when Biff fumbled a measurement. "Easy, kid," Tank had murmured, breath warm against Biff’s neck. The scent of sawdust and cheap coffee lingered in Biff’s nostrils even now. He groaned, pressing his face into the pillow.
A sharp pressure bloomed low in his gut. He blinked awake. Darkness pressed against the windows. Two seventeen glowed red on the clock. "Fuck," he muttered, swinging thick legs off the mattress. The hardwood floor was cold under his feet. His erection bobbed as he stood, heavy and insistent. He didn’t bother covering himself; the apartment was empty.
Padding into the bathroom, he flicked on the light. Harsh fluorescence bounced off white tiles. He braced one hand against the wall above the toilet, the other guiding himself. A long, relieved sigh escaped him as urine splashed into the bowl. The ache in his bladder faded, but the hard heat between his legs remained.
He shuffled back to the rumpled bed. The sheets smelled like sleep and salt. Sitting on the edge, he stared at the calluses on his palms — the same hands that lifted steel beams all day. Tank’s face floated behind his eyelids again: the crinkles around his eyes, the way his shirt stretched across his back. Biff’s fingers slid down his stomach, through coarse hair. He wrapped his fist around his shaft, a shudder rolling through him.
"Just thinking," he whispered hoarsely to the empty room. "Not yet." He slowed his strokes, breathing ragged. Tank’s imagined groan echoed in his skull, rough and approving. Biff bit his lip, slowing again as pleasure coiled tight. "Not yet." His hips jerked. Heat surged, unstoppable this time. Thick ropes shot across his chest and belly, some landing high on his throat. He gasped, hand still moving until the last tremor faded.
Wiping himself lazily with a discarded t-shirt, he collapsed back onto the mattress. His breathing evened out. Outside, a garbage truck clattered down the alley. He was asleep before it turned the corner.
The alarm’s harsh buzz felt like a physical blow. Six a.m. Biff slammed a heavy palm onto the clock. Morning light filtered through dusty blinds, illuminating specks dancing in the air. He stared at the dried streaks glistening faintly on his chest and stomach – tangible proof of Tank’s phantom presence. A flush crept up his neck. Coffee. Shower. Now. He scrubbed himself vigorously under the hot spray, the water sluicing away sweat and seed. The scent of cheap soap filled the cramped stall. He dressed mechanically: worn jeans, steel-toed boots, a faded blue work shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. He skipped breakfast, gulping burnt coffee straight from the pot. Its bitterness mirrored the knot tightening in his stomach.
The construction yard throbbed with noise and diesel fumes by eight a.m. Hammers rang against metal, saws whined, radios blared competing stations. Biff scanned the site, spotting Tank instantly. He was near the half-built steel skeleton, pointing upwards while shouting instructions to a crane operator. Sunlight glinted off the silver streaks in his dark hair, highlighting the powerful lines of his jaw. Biff’s palms were slick inside his gloves. He took a deep breath, inhaling dust and ozone, and walked over. His boots crunched on gravel.
"Boss?" Biff’s voice sounded unnaturally loud to his own ears, almost cracking.
Tank turned, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm. His eyes, a startling blue against his tanned skin, narrowed slightly in concern. "What’s up, Biff? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"Need to talk," Biff managed, his throat dry. "Private?"
Tank studied him for a heartbeat, then nodded towards his makeshift site office – a converted shipping container. "Alright. Five minutes." Inside, the air was hotter, thick with the smell of stale coffee and old paperwork piled on a folding table. The door clanged shut, muffling the yard’s chaos. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
Biff stood rigidly, unable to meet Tank’s gaze. He stared at a blueprint pinned to the wall, focusing on the intricate lines.
"Spit it out, son," Tank said, leaning back against the table, arms crossed. His muscles shifted under his sweat-dampened shirt. The silence stretched.
Biff swallowed hard, tasting the morning’s coffee again, sour now. He forced his eyes up, locking onto Tank’s. The words tumbled out, raw and stripped bare: "It’s you, Tank. All these years ... it’s always been you."
Tank didn’t move. His expression remained unreadable, but his blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly. The fluorescent hum filled the thick silence. Biff’s heart hammered against his ribs. He braced himself for disgust, dismissal, anger.
Tank uncrossed his arms slowly. A small, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his hand before he clenched it. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping low, rough with an unfamiliar softness: "Christ, Biff ... I thought I was the only one carrying that torch."
Biff froze mid-breath, the air catching like gravel in his throat. Tank’s eyes weren’t mocking him – they held a startling intensity, a reflection of the raw ache Biff felt each morning waking alone. The scent of Tank’s sweat cut through the stale coffee smell, earthy and sharp, mingling with the metallic tang of the container walls. Biff’s gloves creaked as he clenched his fists, knuckles white beneath the worn leather. Years of sidelong glances in the locker room, awkward silences over safety reports, the way Tank’s hand lingered when passing tools – suddenly every memory rewrote itself in blinding clarity. He’d braced for rejection, not this terrifying possibility.
"You mean ..." Biff stammered, the blueprint blurring before him. "All those times? When you stayed late helping me fix my measurements? Or ... or that barbeque at your place?" Tank’s rough chuckle filled the cramped space, warmer than Biff remembered.
"Thought you were bein' polite," Tank murmured. "Didn't wanna scare you off. Smart kid like you ..." His gaze travelled deliberately down Biff’s frame – the strained fabric across his shoulders, the thick forearms resting rigidly at his sides – then back up, lingering. A flush bloomed high on Tank’s neck, visible above his collar. "Kept tellin' myself you wouldn't want an old wreck like me." The confession hung thickly between them.
Outside, a pneumatic drill stuttered violently, shaking the container floor. Neither man flinched. Tank pushed off the desk, closing the gap in two strides. He stopped inches away. Biff could see the faint grey stubble along Tank’s jaw, the creases deepened by years squinting against the sun, and the pulse hammering beneath his tanned skin. The clean scent of soap Biff had used that morning felt suddenly insignificant against Tank’s overwhelming presence – heat, sweat, diesel, and something fiercely vulnerable.
Tank’s calloused hand hesitated before raising slowly. "Been imaginin' this," Tank breathed, his knuckles brushing Biff’s cheekbone, tracing the line of his beard. The touch sparked a jolt through Biff’s body, electric and terrifyingly grounding. Tank’s thumb swept over Biff’s bottom lip, rough skin catching slightly. Biff’s own breath hitched sharply. The roar of the yard faded into a distant hum. Tank’s eyes darkened, fixed on Biff’s mouth. "Years," Tank whispered, the word rough with longing. His hand slid firmly around the back of Biff’s neck, pulling him closer.
Their foreheads touched first, a solid, anchoring pressure. Tank’s breath was hot against Biff’s face, smelling faintly of coffee and spearmint gum. Then Tank’s lips met his—dry, tentative at first, then insistent, parting Biff’s with a low groan. Biff surged forward, hands gripping Tank’s hips, fingers digging into the thick leather belt. Tank tasted like salt and sunburn. Biff’s senses reeled: the scrape of stubble against his chin, the damp cotton of Tank’s shirt under his palms, the low rumble vibrating from Tank’s chest against his own. Tank’s tongue slid against his, demanding, claiming, silencing every doubt.
Biff’s back collided with the humming container wall as Tank pressed him against it, the metal cool through his thin shirt. Tank’s thigh slid between Biff’s legs, grinding firmly upward. A ragged gasp tore from Biff’s throat. Tank broke the kiss, breathing hard, his gaze locked onto Biff’s swollen lips. "Christ, you feel ..." Tank trailed off, his voice thick. His hands roamed down Biff’s sides, settling possessively on his waist, thumbs rubbing circles into the tense muscles above his belt buckle.
Outside, someone yelled indistinctly. Tank didn’t glance away. "My office door’s got a flimsy lock," he rasped, his thumb hooking under Biff’s belt loop. "We got unfinished blueprints ... or we could finish this." His eyes burned into Biff’s, promising heat, urgency, everything Biff had ever dreamed.
Biff’s throat tightened. He could hear the frantic thud of his own pulse. Tank’s proximity — the sheer physicality of him — was overwhelming. He nodded wordlessly, fingers curling into the sweat-damp fabric of Tank’s shirt. Tank’s hand tightened on Biff’s belt loop, steering him sideways toward the flimsy lock. The metallic scrape echoed sharply as Tank twisted the bolt home.
The sudden silence inside the container was deafening. Biff felt Tank’s gaze rake over him, hot and predatory. "Been waitin’ too damn long," Tank growled, crowding him back against the vibrating wall. His calloused hand slid under Biff’s shirt, palm rough against the taut skin of his belly, tracing the coarse hair upward. Biff shuddered, arching into the touch.
Tank’s mouth crashed against his again, hungry and demanding. His teeth scraped Biff’s lower lip, coaxing a ragged groan. Biff’s hands fumbled with Tank’s belt buckle, fingers clumsy with urgency. The leather gave way, the heavy clink of metal loud in the confined space. Tank’s breath hitched as Biff’s hand pushed past denim and worn cotton, closing around the thick heat of him.
Tank swore low and filthy, thrusting into Biff’s grip. "Like that," he rasped, nipping at Biff’s jawline. "Harder." The scent of arousal — musk and salt and the sharp tang of Tank’s aftershave — flooded Biff’s senses.
Outside, a crane’s engine roared. The container floor vibrated violently. Tank ignored it, kicking his own boots aside with rough impatience. He dragged Biff’s jeans down over his hips, the coarse denim catching on his thighs.
Biff gasped as Tank’s hand wrapped around him, calluses dragging exquisitely over sensitive skin. Tank’s thumb swiped over the head, smearing pre-cum. "Want to taste you," Tank murmured, dropping to his knees, the gravelly sound of his voice vibrating through Biff’s bones. His tongue, hot and wet, laved a searing path from base to tip. Biff’s head thudded against the metal wall.
Tank took him deep, swallowing him whole. Biff cried out, fingers twisting in Tank’s silver-streaked hair. The suction was relentless, perfect. Tank hummed, the vibration shooting straight to Biff’s core. Pleasure coiled tight, unbearable.
"Tank —" Biff choked out, hips jerking helplessly. Tank’s hands clamped on his ass, holding him still, forcing him to take the rhythm Tank set. The world narrowed to wet heat, pressure, and Tank’s blue eyes locked fiercely on his face. Biff’s vision blurred. He was drowning, soaring — seconds from shattering.
Outside, the pneumatic drill screamed again, drowning out Biff’s broken gasp as release tore through him. Tank swallowed, greedy, then pressed his forehead hard against Biff’s trembling thigh.
Silence pressed thick in the container after the drill's scream faded, broken only by Tank's ragged breaths against Biff's thigh and Biff's own shuddering gasps. Tank lifted his head slowly, lips slick, gaze unwavering. He ran a thumb across his mouth, a slow, deliberate motion that sent another jolt through Biff's spent body.
"Been picturing that," Tank murmured, his voice gravelly with satisfaction. He rose fluidly, knees cracking, and crowded Biff back against the humming metal. The air crackled with unfinished tension.
Tank didn't wait. He seized Biff's jaw, tilting his face up. "My turn," he growled, guiding Biff's hand firmly to his own straining erection. Through the rough denim, Biff felt the thick, insistent heat. Tank hissed as Biff's fingers explored the outline. "Been hard since you walked in here lookin' like thunder." He captured Biff's mouth again, deep and possessive, grinding his hips forward so Biff felt every ridge, every pulse against his palm. The taste of himself on Tank's tongue – salty, intimate – was dizzying.
With rough efficiency, Tank peeled his own jeans and boxers down his powerful thighs. He kicked them aside, his erection springing free, thick and flushed against the dark hair at his groin. He guided Biff’s hand onto him fully, wrapping Biff's larger fingers around his shaft.
"Feel that?" Tank rasped, thrusting shallowly into Biff's grip. "Years of watchin' you lug steel, sweat rollin' down your back ... Christ." Biff tightened his fist, dragging a low groan from Tank. The skin was velvet over iron, pulsing urgently. Pre-cum slicked Biff’s fingers, warm and viscous.
Tank braced one hand high on the container wall above Biff’s head, leaning in. His breath was hot on Biff’s ear. "Stroke me," he commanded, husky and raw. "Like you wanted to when I bent over the blueprints."
Biff obeyed, setting a slow, firm rhythm, mesmerized by the play of muscles in Tank's abdomen, the tremor in his thighs. Tank’s hips snapped forward, driving deeper into Biff’s fist. "Faster." His fist clenched in Biff’s shirt. "Yeah. Just like that, kid."
Tank’s head dropped, forehead pressing to Biff’s shoulder. His breathing grew ragged, punctuated by sharp gasps. He bit down gently on the fabric of Biff’s shirt, muffling a groan. "Gonna ... gonna ..." His whole body tensed, corded muscle straining.
With a final, choked thrust, release ripped through him. Hot ropes pf Tank's sperm pulsed over Biff’s knuckles and wrist, spattering onto the dusty container floor. Tank shuddered violently, his weight heavy against Biff, spent and trembling. He stayed pressed close for long moments, breathing harshly against Biff’s neck, the scent of sex and sweat thick between them.
Outside, a radio blared suddenly – classic rock – startlingly loud. Tank lifted his head, eyes dazed but fiercely blue, meeting Biff’s gaze. A slow, unguarded smile spread across his face.
Biff stared at the sticky warmth cooling on his hand, Tank’s release stark against his skin. Reality crashed back: the thin metal walls, the shouts of the crew just feet away, the scent of diesel mingling sharply with their sweat and sex. His own spent cock pulsed weakly against his thigh.
Tank leaned in, resting his forehead against Biff’s, breath still ragged. "Damn," Tank murmured, the word thick, satisfied. His thumb brushed Biff’s cheekbone, smearing a trace of sweat. "Always knew you had strong hands."
Biff’s voice was a raspy whisper. "The guys ... the lock ..." Panic flickered beneath the lingering haze of pleasure.
Tank chuckled, a low rumble vibrating against Biff’s chest. "Screw ‘em," he breathed, pulling back slightly. His gaze travelled down Biff’s body – the open jeans, the glistening mess on his hand, the drying streaks on his own stomach. A possessive heat flared in Tank’s eyes. "Need a minute," he added roughly, reaching for a crumpled blueprint on the desk. He tore off a ragged corner of paper, handing it to Biff. "Here. Make yourself decent." Tank turned, snagging his own jeans, moving with surprising grace for a man his size despite the slight stiffness in his movements.
Biff wiped his hand mechanically, the cheap paper rough. He watched Tank pull his jeans back on, the powerful muscles of his back flexing, the silver streaks in his dark hair catching the buzzing fluorescent light. Tank zipped up, buckled his belt with a decisive click, then turned back. He didn’t shy away. He stepped close again, invading Biff’s space. His large hand cupped the back of Biff’s neck firmly.
"Listen," Tank said, voice low and intense, eyes locked on Biff’s. "This ain't some fling. Not for me." His thumb stroked the short hairs at Biff’s nape. "My place. Tonight. Seven." It wasn’t a question. The command sent a fresh jolt through Biff’s exhausted body.
A sharp knock rattled the thin metal door. "Boss? Crane’s ready on Bay Three!" a voice yelled outside.
Tank’s expression hardened instantly, the raw intimacy vanishing under the foreman’s mask. He gave Biff’s neck a final, reassuring squeeze, then stepped back. "Yeah, Mike! Be right there!" he called, his voice back to its usual worksite bark. He grabbed his hard hat, slapped it onto his head, and shot Biff one last, blazing look – a promise, an anchor – before yanking open the flimsy lock.
Daylight flooded in, along with the cacophony of the yard. Tank strode out without looking back. Biff stood frozen amidst the scent of sex and stale coffee, the torn blueprint crumpled in his fist, the echo of Tank’s command – Tonight. Seven. – thrumming louder than any pneumatic drill.
The sudden brightness stung Biff’s eyes. Outside, the familiar chaos felt alien. The shouts of the crew, the clanging steel, the roar of engines – it all pressed in, sharp and jarring against the lingering intimacy of the container. He hastily zipped his jeans, fingers fumbling.
The drying stickiness on his hand felt alien, a stark physical reminder that collided violently with the sight of Mike waving a clipboard at Tank near the crane cab. Tank’s posture was pure foreman – shoulders squared, head tilted upwards, pointing decisively. Not a trace of the man whose breath had hitched against Biff’s neck moments ago.
Biff forced his legs to move. Stepping out was like entering a furnace after a blizzard. Dust coated his tongue. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, walking stiffly towards the skeletal frame where his crew was bolting girders. The heat radiating from the steel beams was nothing compared to the flush burning his neck and cheeks.
"Hey, Biff!" Carl yelled from the scaffold above. "You okay? Look like you seen a ghost!" Carl’s grin was wide, oblivious.
Biff cleared his throat, the sound rough. "Fine," he managed, grabbing his welding helmet with hands that felt strangely distant. "Just hot." He snapped the helmet down, the familiar darkness offering a brief sanctuary. Behind the tinted visor, he watched Tank across the yard.
Tank climbed effortlessly onto a low platform near the crane, shouting instructions. His movements were powerful, economical. Biff’s gaze traced the line of Tank’s shoulders under the damp shirt, remembering the tremor that had run through those same muscles when he’d come. The memory burned hotter than the welding arc Biff ignited, fusing steel with hands that still trembled slightly.
The hours crawled. Every clang of a hammer echoed Tank’s promise: Tonight. Seven. Biff caught fleeting glimpses – Tank’s profile silhouetted against the afternoon sun, the way he wiped sweat from his neck with the same hand that had gripped Biff’s hip.
Once, their eyes locked across a stack of I-beams. Tank’s gaze held his for a heartbeat, intense and unreadable, before he turned sharply to bellow at a rookie mishandling a load. That brief connection sent sparks down Biff’s spine.
At lunch, Biff sat alone on a discarded pallet, picking at a cold sandwich. The yard buzzed around him, voices blending into white noise. He flinched when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Tank stood beside him, holding two steaming paper cups. "Coffee," Tank stated gruffly, thrusting one into Biff’s hands. His fingers brushed Biff’s knuckles deliberately, lingering a fraction too long. "Black. Two sugars." He knew.
Biff stared at the cup, the ordinary gesture loaded with intimacy. Tank didn’t sit. "Bay Four’s lagging," he said loudly for nearby ears, but his eyes softened as he added, almost inaudibly, "... Counting the minutes." He strode off before Biff could reply, the phantom heat of his touch lingering.
The final whistle screamed at five-thirty. Biff shoved his tools into his locker with frantic haste. He could feel Tank watching from the foreman’s office doorway. As Biff slammed the locker shut, Tank moved past him towards the exit, a blueprint tube under his arm. He paused, leaning close as if checking a clipboard. His whisper was rough velvet against Biff’s ear: "Don’t be late." The scent of his sweat and diesel clung to Biff long after Tank strode away.
Dinner was a blur – a tasteless microwave meal wolfed down standing in his cramped kitchenette. Biff showered again, scrubbing away grime and nervous sweat. He hesitated over clothes: worn flannel? Clean tee? He settled on fresh jeans and a faded black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest.
Seven. The word hammered in his skull. He drove through the fading twilight, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Tank’s neighborhood was older, quieter – sturdy brick houses with climbing roses. Tank’s porch light glowed yellow under a mossy awning. Biff’s throat tightened as he knocked.
The door swung open. Tank stood there, out of workshirt and boots. He wore soft grey sweatpants and a thin white undershirt that clung to his powerful shoulders. His feet were bare. The harsh site foreman was gone; his eyes held a startling softness.
"Made it," Tank rumbled, stepping aside. Warmth spilled out – the smell of leather, wood polish, and something simmering. Inside was unexpectedly neat: dark wood furniture, framed photos of bridges on the walls, a plaid couch sagging from use. A record player spun low jazz.
Tank closed the door. The lock clicked, solid and final. He turned, his gaze travelling slowly down Biff’s frame, lingering. "Been picturing this all damn day," Tank admitted, voice thick. He closed the distance. His large hands settled firmly on Biff’s hips, pulling him flush. Chest to chest. Biff could feel Tank’s heat, the solid wall of muscle beneath the thin cotton. Tank’s thumb traced the defined ridge of Biff’s hip bone through his jeans.
No blueprint this time. Tank’s mouth covered his, hungry and deep. The kiss tasted faintly of beer and mint. Tank’s hands slid up Biff’s back, pulling the t-shirt loose from his jeans waistband, large palms mapping the skin beneath.
"Ain’t even got you a beer yet," Tank murmured against Biff’s jaw, his stubble scraping as he worked his way down Biff’s neck. He nipped lightly at the tendon. Biff gasped, fingers digging into Tank’s thick shoulders. The faded cotton of Tank’s undershirt felt thin, stretched taut over sculpted muscle. Beneath it, the heat was astonishing.
"Don’t need it," Biff choked out, arching into Tank’s tongue tracing his collarbone.
Tank chuckled, low and dark. His hands slid lower, gripping the swell of Biff’s ass through denim. "Need somethin’ else?" He ground his hips forward. The thick ridge of Tank’s hardening cock pressed insistently against Biff’s thigh, even through the soft sweatpants. The sheer proximity – the raw, undeniable proof of Tank’s desire – sent a fresh wave of heat flooding Biff’s groin.
He grabbed fistfuls of Tank’s undershirt. "Bedroom?" The word came out ragged.
Tank pulled back just enough to meet Biff’s eyes. His blue gaze burned, predatory. "Too far." With a practiced twist, he hooked a foot behind Biff’s ankle and pushed. Biff stumbled backward onto the worn plaid couch. Before he could catch his breath, Tank was on him, knees bracketing Biff’s hips, pinning him deep into the cushions. The springs groaned.
Leather and sweat filled Biff’s nose as Tank crushed their mouths together again. His hands were everywhere – wrenching Biff’s t-shirt over his head, calloused palms dragging roughly over Biff’s hairy chest. Tank paused, his gaze devouring the thick muscle, the dark trail leading down. He leaned down, tongue laving a broad stripe from sternum to navel. Biff hissed, fingers tangling in Tank’s silver-streaked hair.
"Been starin’ at this chest through your sweaty shirts for years," Tank growled, biting gently at a nipple. Biff bucked beneath him. Tank grinned fiercely, grinding his erection hard against Biff’s straining jeans. "Like that? Good." His hands flew to Biff’s belt buckle. The rasp of leather, the clink of metal – impossibly loud. Tank yanked jeans and briefs down Biff’s thick thighs in one rough motion. Cool air hit Biff’s exposed cock, already slick at the tip. He was achingly hard.
Tank sat back on his heels, straddling Biff’s hips. His gaze travelled slowly down Biff’s naked body – the hairy thighs, the thick shaft flushed and straining upward – then back to Biff’s face. His own erection tented the grey sweats obscenely. He licked his lips. "Christ, Biff," he breathed, voice thick with awe. "Perfect." He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, peeling them down slowly, revealing himself inch by thick inch.
Biff’s breath caught. Tank was thick, uncut, pulsing against his own dark curls. Tank leaned forward, pressing his bare chest flush against Biff’s, skin sliding against skin in a slick, sweaty glide. The scratch of hair, the solid weight of muscle – Biff groaned, arching upward. Tank captured his mouth again, biting at his lips as he ground their cocks together. Heat and friction ignited instantly.
Tank broke the kiss, panting. He grabbed Biff’s wrists, pinning them above his head against the worn couch cushion. "Stay," he commanded roughly. His free hand slid down Biff’s trembling belly, fingers wrapping tight around both their shafts. He squeezed. Biff gasped, hips jerking helplessly. Tank’s thumb swept over both weeping heads, smearing pre-cum slickly between them.
"Feel that?" Tank growled, tightening his grip, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Years of wantin' this." He began to stroke them together – rough, urgent friction. Skin rasped against skin, slicked by their own arousal. Tank’s calloused palm dragged exquisitely over Biff’s sensitive ridge.
Biff cried out, thrashing against Tank’s grip. Tank’s fingers dug harder into Biff’s wrists. "Hold still," he rasped, hips pumping faster, grinding their lengths fiercely together. His sweat dripped onto Biff’s chest, hot and salty.
Tank’s rhythm became frantic, desperate. His breath hitched in harsh gasps. "Gonna ... Gonna ..." he choked out. His eyes locked fiercely onto Biff’s, blue fire burning away the last shreds of control.
Biff felt the impossible tension coiling, tightening unbearably low in his belly. Tank thrust hard, grinding down one last time. A ragged shout tore from Tank’s throat as release slammed through him. Hot ropes of Tank's sperm pulsed thickly over Biff’s chest and belly, splattering against his collarbone, dripping onto the coarse hair.
The sight, the feel, the primal scent flooding his senses – it shattered Biff. His own climax ripped through him violently, untouched. Jets of sperm erupted from his piss slit, arching high to mingle with Tank’s mess across his chest. He arched off the couch, shuddering uncontrollably, Tank’s grip on his wrists the only anchor.
Tank slumped forward, forehead pressing wetly against Biff’s sticky sternum. His chest heaved. Slowly, he released Biff’s wrists, his trembling fingers tracing the cooling streaks on Biff’s skin. "Mine," Tank muttered, voice thick and satisfied.
Outside, crickets chirped in the twilight. Inside, the scent of sex hung heavy, and Tank’s weight pinned Biff deep into the couch springs.
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