The Song of Love: Andrew Powers & Fame
Andrew Powers and Fame star in a hot scene where a desperate blowjob turns into a raw fuck that leaves both men gasping for air.
Andrew Powers stares at the guitar resting on Fame’s lap, its polished surface reflecting the cold distance in their relationship. Fame—his boyfriend, his muse, his obsession—is lost in chords and lyrics, fingers dancing while Andrew simmers in silent frustration. Days without touch. Nights spent alone. No more. Andrew’s hand slams onto the guitar’s body, silencing it. Fame’s eyes snap up, but Andrew doesn’t wait for permission. He yanks the instrument aside, shoves his face into Fame’s crotch, and inhales the musk of sweat and denim. Fame freezes—“Andrew, I’m working—”—but his cock betrays him, hardening against Andrew’s insistent tongue.
Fame’s resolve cracks. With a growl, he tosses the guitar aside and fists Andrew’s hair, yanking his head back. “You want this? Take it,” he snarls, plunging his dick into Andrew’s mouth. Andrew gags, tears streaming as Fame’s thickness stretches his throat. But this is what he craved—the ownership, the brutality. Fame’s hips piston faster, his grip tightening until Andrew’s scalp burns. “Swallow. Breathe. Fight me,” Fame rasps, his voice gravel. Andrew claws at Fame’s thighs, choking around the invasion until his own cock throbs painfully in his jeans.
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When Fame pulls free, Andrew’s gasp is ragged. “Not enough?” Fame smirks, flipping Andrew onto his back. “Let’s fix that.” No lube. No warning. Fame’s cock spears Andrew’s ass, splitting him open with a single, savage thrust. Andrew screams, his nails digging into Fame’s biceps as the musician pounds him raw, their sweat-soaked bodies crashing against the studio floor. “Harder,” Andrew sobs, writhing like a man possessed. Fame obliges—his hands grip Andrew’s hips like vices, driving into him with animalistic force until the room fills with the slap of flesh and the scent of desperation.
When Andrew’s cock erupts between them, his climax rips through him like a storm. Fame follows seconds later, his teeth sinking into Andrew’s shoulder as he floods him with cum. Collapsing, Fame rolls off, already reaching for his guitar. “Back to work,” he mutters, but Andrew’s hand snakes around his waist—“One more song. For me.” Fame’s laugh is bitter, tender.
