The sound of gravel crunching under thick tires echoed through the stillness of the countryside as the first truck rolled up the long dirt drive. It was a 2022 blacked-out Silverado, lifted, polished, and dirty in all the right ways. Jackson Carter swung the door open and stepped out slow—boots first, then that broad, thick frame. Standing at 6’4”, deep brown skin glowing under the sun, Jackson moved like a man who didn’t have to speak to be felt. Muscles pushed against the sleeves of his black tee, and his jeans fit snug over tree-trunk thighs and a bulge that didn’t care about modesty. He tugged his cap low and stretched, chest thick and wide, the kind of body built from years of work and silence.
A dust trail followed behind him. Logan Carter was next to arrive—6’2”, white, with a farmer’s tan and a hard jawline beneath a short, scruffy beard. Blue eyes squinted against the heat as he stepped out of his silver Dodge, every movement slow and controlled. His flannel shirt hung open over a plain white tank, both hugging the kind of solid build that said ranch work, not gym time. Thick forearms, calloused hands, and broad shoulders rounded out the quiet intimidation that was Logan. His trailer carried two horses that kicked and snorted like they knew the weekend was about to get wild. He didn’t say much. He never did. Just gave Jackson a nod, lit his cigar, and leaned against the gate.
Then came the noise—an old country song blasting out a Bluetooth speaker and a loud “YEAAA BOY!” echoing across the trees. Wyatt Carter’s F-150 skidded into the clearing, bed loaded with ATVs, coolers, and an arm sticking out the window holding a bottle of Uncle Nearest. Shirtless, 5’11” but built like a freight train, Wyatt hopped out wearing nothing but jeans, boots, and confidence. White boy, dirty blond curls under a weathered cowboy hat, wide chest, thick biceps, and a stomach that was more powerful than pretty. His jeans hugged strong thighs and a heavy package that bounced when he moved. He knew he looked good—and he made sure everyone else did too.
“Y’all ready to raise some hell?” he grinned.
Last was DeShawn Carter, rolling smooth in his matte gray Ram. A solid 6’3”, Black, with warm brown skin and a gold rope chain resting against his fitted white tee. His body was lean but powerful—cut abs, full chest, arms that stretched his sleeves, and a clean fade beneath his cowboy hat. His Wranglers fit just right, showing off a thick curve in the back and a front that made it hard not to look. He stepped out slow, surveying the others like he was still deciding who he’d fuck first—if he ever admitted he wanted to at all.
No one mentioned the wives, the kids, or the stress of home. Not here. Not on thisweekend.
Every year, the four Carters—no blood between them—met up on this private land for their annual trail ride. They’d met as boys with the same last name in a small southern town, became brothers through bond not birth. Now men, successful and strong, they carried lives filled with expectations. But out here, miles away from anyone who could see them, the rules didn’t apply.
There were horses. There were ATVs. There were cigars, bourbons, beef jerky, and smoke in the air.
And there were things between them. Things left unspoken. Things remembered.
As the sun dipped lower behind the trees, Logan saddled up his stallion, slow and deliberate. Jackson fired up his ATV, the rumble vibrating through his legs. DeShawn took a swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes lingering a second too long on Logan’s back. Wyatt, ever the instigator, slapped Jackson’s shoulder with a laugh.
“Bet your big ass can’t keep up in the woods,” he smirked. “Unless you’re gettin’ distracted like last year.”
Jackson didn’t answer. Just smirked and revved the engine.
They rode off in pairs, dirt flying, four men chasing freedom.
And something else.
They split up naturally—Logan and Wyatt took the horses, riding ahead along the creekside path, while Jackson and DeShawn roared down the opposite trail on their ATVs, dust clouds kicking behind them.
The sun was high and brutal, but none of them complained. This was their element—mud on their boots, sweat beading down their backs, trees stretching overhead like old secrets. Shirts came off early, tossed over saddles or handlebars. Their bodies glistened in the light, muscles flexing with every stride, every turn, every playful shove and smack.
Jackson let the ATV idle for a moment, cutting the engine near a clearing by the riverbank. He leaned back, arms behind his head, big chest rising and falling. “Gotta say,” he muttered, voice low and full of gravel, “beats sittin’ behind a desk all week.”
DeShawn pulled up beside him, straddling the machine with his legs spread wide. His jeans clung tight from the ride, and his shirt was tied around his waist. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a flask, and took a long swig before passing it over.
“Hell yeah it does. Man, I been waitin’ for this weekend all damn year.”
There was silence for a beat. Not awkward. Just thick.
Jackson looked over at him, jaw twitching. “You ever think about last year?”
DeShawn paused. Then nodded. “Sometimes.”
They didn’t say more.
Across the woods, Logan and Wyatt were slowing their horses to a walk. Wyatt leaned back in his saddle, chest slick with sweat, his hat tilted back. He let out a loud holler just to hear it echo.
“Damn it’s hot,” he said, wiping his chest with the bottom of his tank. “You ever think we’d still be doin’ this?”
Logan smirked. “Wasn’t sure. But I’m glad we are.”
The horses clopped through the trees until they reached the clearing where the other two were. The four men regrouped, loose and easy but with that same charged air between them. They all parked or tied off, each finding a spot near the big oak tree that shaded the edge of the woods.
Wyatt tossed down a blanket and dropped onto it with a grunt. “Man, I swear my nuts are stickin’ to my damn leg.”
DeShawn laughed. “Mine too. Air ain’t movin’ at all.”
“You know what we need?” Wyatt asked, unbuckling his belt and flopping onto his back, arms behind his head. “A fuckin’ breeze and a release.”
Jackson cocked an eyebrow. “What you talkin’ about?”
Wyatt looked up at him with a sly grin. “C’mon now. Y’all know damn well what happens out here stays out here.”
Nobody spoke. But nobody looked away.
Wyatt’s fingers went to the front of his jeans. “Y’all scared?”
Logan exhaled through his nose. “Ain’t never been scared of you.”
And just like that, the tension broke.
Belts unbuckled. Zippers dragged down. The sound of denim shifting filled the silence between them.
They didn’t touch each other. Didn’t speak. Just sat in a loose circle beneath the tree—four grown men, muscles flexed, sun glinting off their skin and sweat, pulling their cocks free and stroking in the thick country heat.
Jackson’s was the biggest—dark, heavy, thick as a forearm. He gripped it slow, steady, mouth tight as he leaned back against a log. Logan’s curved slightly, veins bulging with each stroke, his jaw clenched like he was trying to keep control. DeShawn bit his lip, eyes locked on Jackson, hands moving over his own thick meat with practiced rhythm. And Wyatt? Wyatt had his eyes half-closed, legs spread wide, cock in hand and moaning low like he was alone.
The sound of stroking. Grunts. The scent of sweat and bourbon in the air. No shame. No hesitation.
Then Wyatt broke the silence, voice rough, needy:
“Been thinkin’ about a cum bath all damn year…”
He looked up, eyes glazed, panting.
“How ‘bout y’all bless me right here… all my bros nut on my chest. Let me wear it.”
There was a beat of stillness. Then Jackson grinned. “You nasty as hell.”
But his grip tightened. And the others didn’t stop.
Wyatt leaned back, hands behind his head, chest rising, thick and ready.
He came first, groaning as thick ropes splashed across his own chest and stomach.
Logan followed—back arched, eyes closed, cursing low under his breath as his load joined Wyatt’s across his abs.
DeShawn let out a sharp breath, stroking faster. He stood, stepped forward, and added his warm release to the mix, dripping from Wyatt’s pecs and down his ribs.
Jackson stood last, looming over Wyatt with sweat running down his chest. His cock pulsed as he stroked out one final grunt—and spilled a heavy, hot stream across Wyatt’s chest and neck.
Cum pooled. Dripped. Mixed.
No one said anything for a long moment.
Then Wyatt opened one eye and smirked. “That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.”
Logan stood, tucking himself back in. “We ain’t leavin you smellin’ like that.”
They all laughed.
A minute later, they stripped down and walked down to the riverbank. The cold water hit hard but clean. They rinsed off, quiet but close. No words, just glances. Jackson dunked under. Logan wiped his chest with a bandana. Wyatt floated on his back, cum washed away but the heat still in his eyes. DeShawn stayed waist-deep, watching them all with a smirk.
They climbed out slowly, toweling off and pulling on their clothes like nothing happened.
But it lingered.
And the night hadn’t even started yet.
They split up naturally—Logan and Wyatt took the horses, riding ahead along the creekside path, while Jackson and DeShawn roared down the opposite trail on their ATVs, dust clouds kicking behind them.
The sun was high and brutal, but none of them complained. This was their element—mud on their boots, sweat beading down their backs, trees stretching overhead like old secrets. Shirts came off early, tossed over saddles or handlebars. Their bodies glistened in the light, muscles flexing with every stride, every turn, every playful shove and smack.
Jackson let the ATV idle for a moment, cutting the engine near a clearing by the riverbank. He leaned back, arms behind his head, big chest rising and falling. “Gotta say,” he muttered, voice low and full of gravel, “beats sittin’ behind a desk all week.”
DeShawn pulled up beside him, straddling the machine with his legs spread wide. His jeans clung tight from the ride, and his shirt was tied around his waist. He reached into his saddlebag, pulled out a flask, and took a long swig before passing it over.
“Hell yeah it does. Man, I been waitin’ for this weekend all damn year.”
There was silence for a beat. Not awkward. Just thick.
Jackson looked over at him, jaw twitching. “You ever think about last year?”
DeShawn paused. Then nodded. “Sometimes.”
They didn’t say more.
Across the woods, Logan and Wyatt were slowing their horses to a walk. Wyatt leaned back in his saddle, chest slick with sweat, his hat tilted back. He let out a loud holler just to hear it echo.
“Damn it’s hot,” he said, wiping his chest with the bottom of his tank. “You ever think we’d still be doin’ this?”
Logan smirked. “Wasn’t sure. But I’m glad we are.”
The horses clopped through the trees until they reached the clearing where the other two were. The four men regrouped, loose and easy but with that same charged air between them. They all parked or tied off, each finding a spot near the big oak tree that shaded the edge of the woods.
Wyatt tossed down a blanket and dropped onto it with a grunt. “Man, I swear my nuts are stickin’ to my damn leg.”
DeShawn laughed. “Mine too. Air ain’t movin’ at all.”
“You know what we need?” Wyatt asked, unbuckling his belt and flopping onto his back, arms behind his head. “A fuckin’ breeze and a release.”
Jackson cocked an eyebrow. “What you talkin’ about?”
Wyatt looked up at him with a sly grin. “C’mon now. Y’all know damn well what happens out here stays out here.”
Nobody spoke. But nobody looked away.
Wyatt’s fingers went to the front of his jeans. “Y’all scared?”
Logan exhaled through his nose. “Ain’t never been scared of you.”
And just like that, the tension broke.
Belts unbuckled. Zippers dragged down. The sound of denim shifting filled the silence between them.
They didn’t touch each other. Didn’t speak. Just sat in a loose circle beneath the tree—four grown men, muscles flexed, sun glinting off their skin and sweat, pulling their cocks free and stroking in the thick country heat.
Jackson’s was the biggest—dark, heavy, thick as a forearm. He gripped it slow, steady, mouth tight as he leaned back against a log. Logan’s curved slightly, veins bulging with each stroke, his jaw clenched like he was trying to keep control. DeShawn bit his lip, eyes locked on Jackson, hands moving over his own thick meat with practiced rhythm. And Wyatt? Wyatt had his eyes half-closed, legs spread wide, cock in hand and moaning low like he was alone.
The sound of stroking. Grunts. The scent of sweat and bourbon in the air. No shame. No hesitation.
Then Wyatt broke the silence, voice rough, needy:
“Been thinkin’ about a cum bath all damn year…”
He looked up, eyes glazed, panting.
“How ‘bout y’all bless me right here… all my bros nut on my chest. Let me wear it.”
There was a beat of stillness. Then Jackson grinned. “You nasty as hell.”
But his grip tightened. And the others didn’t stop.
Wyatt leaned back, hands behind his head, chest rising, thick and ready.
He came first, groaning as thick ropes splashed across his own chest and stomach.
Logan followed—back arched, eyes closed, cursing low under his breath as his load joined Wyatt’s across his abs.
DeShawn let out a sharp breath, stroking faster. He stood, stepped forward, and added his warm release to the mix, dripping from Wyatt’s pecs and down his ribs.
Jackson stood last, looming over Wyatt with sweat running down his chest. His cock pulsed as he stroked out one final grunt—and spilled a heavy, hot stream across Wyatt’s chest and neck.
Cum pooled. Dripped. Mixed.
No one said anything for a long moment.
Then Wyatt opened one eye and smirked. “That’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.”
Logan stood, tucking himself back in. “We ain’t leavin you smellin’ like that.”
They all laughed.
A minute later, they stripped down and walked down to the riverbank. The cold water hit hard but clean. They rinsed off, quiet but close. No words, just glances. Jackson dunked under. Logan wiped his chest with a bandana. Wyatt floated on his back, cum washed away but the heat still in his eyes. DeShawn stayed waist-deep, watching them all with a smirk.
They climbed out slowly, toweling off and pulling on their clothes like nothing happened.
But it lingered.
And the night hadn’t even started yet.
The morning came slow.
Sunlight filtered through the slats in the cabin wall, dust floating in gold streaks across the room. The fire had long since died, and the smell of bourbon, cigar smoke, sweat, and sex still lingered faintly in the air.
Jackson was the first to rise.
He didn’t say a word—just sat on the edge of the couch in nothing but his briefs, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His chest still glistened with dried sweat. The only movement came when he reached down to adjust himself, letting out a quiet grunt as he stood.
Wyatt stirred next, groaning softly as he rolled over on the rug, naked, body marked up from the night before. He stretched like a man who’d just been rebuilt.
“Damn…” he muttered, blinking slow. “Y’all wore me the hell out.”
Logan emerged from the back room, already dressed—boots on, shirt tucked in, hat low. He didn’t speak either. Just poured coffee into a tin cup, sat at the small wooden table, and watched the others come alive.
DeShawn walked out of the bathroom shirtless, brushing his beard, jeans unzipped. He glanced around the room with a smirk.
“Well… guess that’s one way to kick off the weekend.”
They moved without speaking much. The kind of rhythm that comes from years of knowing each other too well. No guilt. No weird energy. Just men who did what they needed to do—then got back to life.
Wyatt found his jeans and pulled them on, bare chest still sticky in spots. He lit a cigar and leaned against the wall.
“You know,” he said, voice rough but satisfied, “I think that was the best one yet.”
Logan nodded, slow. “Yeah. It was.”
Jackson looked up from tying his boots. “Same time next year?”
DeShawn laughed under his breath. “Ain’t even gotta ask.”
There was a pause—quiet, respectful. Then Wyatt raised his coffee and said it with a grin:
“Same name. Same secret.”
They clinked their mugs. Packed their gear. Mounted up—two on horses, two on ATVs—and rode out into the rising sun like nothing happened.
But something had.
And it would again.
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