Camping Trip Faceful

Victor had finally had enough of the whole dating scene. At thirty-two, single and bone-tired of women who acted like they were automatic tens just for existing, he’d packed his gear and driven deep into the woods for a weekend alone. No phones buzzing with bullshit texts, no pretentious brunches. Just trees, a cooler full of cold beer, his portable TV, and a decent football game to lose himself in.

He set the tent up quick and clean on a flat patch of dirt near a quiet clearing, unrolled the thick sleeping bag inside so it looked soft and inviting, then cracked a beer and settled into his camping chair. The portable TV flickered to life with the pre-game chatter. Sunlight filtered through the pines in lazy gold bars. He took a long pull from the bottle, foam cold against his lips, and let the noise of the crowd on-screen wash over him. This was better. This was simple.

Halfway through the first quarter another camper drifted over from a site maybe fifty yards off. The guy was solid, late twenties, dark hair cropped short, stubble shadowing a strong jaw. He wore a loose tank and cargo shorts that sat low on his hips. “Mind if I catch the game with you?” he asked, nodding at the screen. “My battery’s dead and I can hear it from over there.”

Victor reached into the cooler without hesitating, pulled a second cold bottle, and tossed it underhand. “Pull up a chair. Plenty of room.”

The guy caught it easily, grinned, and dragged over a battered folding chair. “Andre. Twenty-nine. Good to meet you.”

“Victor.” They clinked bottles. The game rolled on. Early tension sat quiet between them—two men side by side, shoulders almost touching when one leaned forward to cheer a big play. They drank. They cursed the refs. They laughed when a receiver dropped an easy catch. Beers emptied and new ones appeared. The afternoon stretched long and warm. Every now and then Victor caught Andre’s eyes lingering a second too long on his mouth or the way his thighs spread in the chair. Andre returned the look, open and unhurried. Neither said a word about it. The beer kept coming. The score stayed tight. By the fourth quarter both of them were loose-limbed and flushed, voices rough from shouting at the screen.

When the final drive stalled, Andre stood, stretched until his tank rode up over a hard stomach, and muttered, “Gotta piss.” He headed toward the thicker trees without waiting for an answer.

Victor stayed seated a moment longer, watching the post-game chatter flicker. His gaze drifted to the open flap of the tent. The sleeping bag looked soft, dark green, plenty of room for two if it came to that. Heat low in his gut that had nothing to do with the beer. He stood, set his empty bottle aside, and dropped to his knees in the dirt to fiddle with the TV antenna. Reception had gone fuzzy after the last commercial break. He cursed under his breath, twisted the metal rod, knees grinding into the earth, ass up a little as he leaned in.

Behind him, a throat cleared—low, deliberate.

Victor spun on his knees.

Andre stood two feet away, shorts shoved down just enough. His cock hung free, enormous, thick, uncut, the heavy foreskin already half-retracted over a dark, flushed head. It swung with the motion of his step and brushed straight across Victor’s cheek, leaving a warm smear of precome. The scent hit him—musk and skin and beer sweat. Andre’s eyes were dark, waiting, no hesitation in them.

Victor didn’t speak. He opened his mouth and took the head in, tongue sliding under the loose foreskin, tasting salt and heat. Andre groaned, one hand dropping to the back of Victor’s head, fingers threading into his hair. “Fuck, yeah. Been watching you all afternoon. Knew you’d want it.”

Victor sucked deeper, lips stretching around the thick shaft, working the foreskin back with his tongue so he could lave the slick head. He hollowed his cheeks and bobbed, taking more each time until the blunt tip nudged the back of his throat. Andre’s hips rolled forward, fucking into the wet heat in short strokes. “That’s it. Open up. Take that cock.” Spit ran down Victor’s chin. He gripped Andre’s thighs for balance, felt the muscle jump under his palms. The heavy balls brushed his chin every time Andre pushed in deep. Victor moaned around the mouthful, the vibration making Andre curse and tighten his grip.

Andre pulled free with a wet pop, cock shiny and rigid, veins standing out. “Chair,” he said, voice rough. “Bend over it.”

Victor scrambled up, heart hammering, cock tenting his own shorts hard enough to ache. He kicked the camping chair around, braced his hands on the arms, and shoved his shorts and briefs down in one motion. Cool air hit his bare ass. Andre stepped in behind him, spat thickly into his palm, and rubbed the slick over Victor’s hole, then more over his own cock. No condom—just bare skin and spit and the mutual hunger that had been building since the second beer. Andre pressed the fat head against the tight ring and pushed.

Victor exhaled hard as the stretch burned open. Inch after thick inch sank into him, foreskin dragging, until Andre’s hips met his ass and stayed there, buried deep. “Christ, you’re tight,” Andre muttered. He started fucking in long, rough strokes, pulling almost all the way out so Victor felt every ridge, then slamming home again. The chair creaked. Victor’s knuckles went white on the arms. Each thrust punched a grunt out of him. “Harder,” he managed. “Don’t fucking stop.”

Andre didn’t. He gripped Victor’s hips hard enough to bruise and pounded him open, balls slapping, the wet sound of bare cock in ass filling the clearing. Filthy encouragement spilled between them—Andre telling him how good his hole felt, how he was going to fill it, Victor pushing back and begging for deeper, for more. Sweat ran down Victor’s spine. His own cock swung heavy and neglected between his legs, dripping onto the dirt. Andre reached around once and gave it two rough strokes that made Victor’s knees buckle, then went back to holding him steady so he could fuck harder.

The rhythm turned savage, deep and relentless. Victor’s vision blurred at the edges. He could feel every pulse of that uncut cock splitting him open, the way the foreskin bunched and smoothed with each stroke. Andre’s breathing went ragged. “Gonna come,” he warned. “Want it on your face.”

Victor nodded frantically. “Do it. Give it to me.”

Andre yanked out, spun Victor around by the shoulder, and shoved him back to his knees. Victor opened his mouth wide, tongue out, eyes locked up. Andre stroked once, twice—fist flying over the slick, spit-shined shaft—and then the first thick rope of cum hit Victor’s cheek, hot and heavy. Another stripe across his nose and lips. Andre kept pumping, groaning low, painting Victor’s face in massive pulses until cum dripped off his chin and onto his chest. The last spurts landed on Victor’s tongue. He closed his lips around the head and sucked the remaining drops clean, tasting salt and bitter heat while Andre shuddered above him.

Victor stayed on his knees a moment longer, licking the last smears from Andre’s spent cock, tongue gentle now under the foreskin. He wiped a thick smear from his eyelashes with the back of his hand, grinned up through the mess, and said, “Sleeping bag’s big enough for two. Stay. We can keep going slow till the sun comes up.”

Andre looked down at him, still catching his breath, cock twitching once more against Victor’s lips, and answered with a low, satisfied question: “You gonna let me wake you up with my cock back down your throat?”