69 Scissors Challenge

I’m on my back, chest heaving, sweat dripping off my pecs. Your 230 lbs of rippling muscle towering above me drop onto my chest, straddling in a reverse schoolboy pin. Your hamstrings frame my face, bare soles planted wide beside my head, balls hanging heavy in those black shorts an inch from my mouth. You grind back just to remind me who’s on top, smearing sweat across my lips.

I taste salt. My cock jerks anyway.

Your weight settles, trying to flatten me. Big mistake.

I shoot my arms between your thighs, grab behind your knees, and explode upward. You feel my shoulders lift first, then my hips. Your balance wobbles. Before you can post your hands, I snake my right leg up the front of your torso, calf sliding over your pecs, and hook my left leg behind your lower back. My ankles cross hard right between your shoulder blades with a wet smack of sweaty skin on skin.

The second you commit I crank my scissors the opposite way and pull with everything I’ve got.

Your quads clamp my ribs; mine clamp yours. Faces buried in crotches, cocks poking out, throbbing, leaking, sliding against our sweaty abs. The pressure is immediate and obscene. Veins explode across both sets of thighs. The canvas creaks beneath us.

We both crank up the pressure and squeeze at the exact same second.

Ribs groan. Breath hisses out. Cocks grind together in the narrow space between eight slabs of flexing muscle. Pre-cum smears everywhere. Toes curl, soles wrinkle, calves cut diamonds. Neither of us speaks; just animal grunts timed to each crushing pulse.

I feel your balls draw tight against my cheek. You feel mine do the same against your lips.

One more synchronized flex and the world whites out.

We blow together, thick ropes of cum painting abs, chests, the inside of each other’s thighs while the scissors stay locked, milking every drop like we’re trying to empty each other completely.

Only when the last spasm fades do the legs finally, reluctantly uncross.

We roll apart, gasping, cocks twitching, bodies glazed