Canyon and Jordan Have Sex During A Cold Night

In the latest scene form ScoutBoys, Scout Canyon seeks warmth on a cold day from Scoutmaster Jordan Starr where the heat of kissing, rimming, and fucking provided the needed relief.

The autumn air razored through their uniforms as Jordan Starr’s chapped lips crashed into Canyon Cole’s, frost-gloved hands clawing at zippers like tundra-starved wolves. “Tent’s colder than your ex’s heart,” Canyon hissed, but Starr’s artillery-grade grip already had his fatigue pants sagging to boot-scuffed snow, wool blankets devouring their knock-kneed collapse. Starr’s thawing cock pulsed against Canyon’s gooseflesh thigh—“Naked’s threefaster”—as his tongue began its polar-vortex purge of Canyon’s clenched survival hole.

No warning—just Starr’s Permafrost-Piercer 9000 tongue slurping his rim into a gelatinous heat-sluice, spit-globbed fingers ream-timing the defrosted chute for full invasion. Canyon’s ice-flecked gasp echoed as Starr’s flare-gunned cockhead corked his virgin furnace, hips pistoning brutal into the clench-ripped breach. “Sarge—fuckin’ split,” Canyon garbled, fingernails bloodying Starr’s dog-tag groove while the nut-hammering began, bushy bushwhacked balls slapping war-drum tempo against his cratering assmeat.

Flip protocol: Canyon wrestle-mounted Starr’s radar-dick in a frostbite fury, raw hole screeching around the barbed-wire girth as he bounced like a deserter at dawn muster. Starr’s granite pecs gleamed under foxhole sweat, hands iron-maidening Canyon’s hips to cavity-quake depth—“Take the full clip, maggot!” Canyon’s untouched soldier-slapper erupted first, jizz-salvo painting Starr’s stubble-strafed jaw as the colon-cannon beneath him grenade-blasted his guts with napalm-nut payload.

Post-spermageddon, they lay in ammo-box debris, Starr’s thumb probing Canyon’s over-clocked exit wound. “Warm yet, Private Drippy?” Canyon tongued a cum-sleet glob off Starr’s nipple: “Order me a snow angel. I’ll melt it.”

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