Stranger on the Bus – Part 6

Everyone in this story is 18+

The morning was cool even in the middle of summer, still damp with leftover fog clinging to the edges of the woods. I was already outside when Max padded barefoot onto the porch, wearing only one of my flannels—too big, barely buttoned, sleeves rolled, nothing underneath but cocky attitude and smooth thighs.

He somehow looked like he belonged there.

Or like he’d already ruined me and knew it.

“You ready to earn your breakfast?” I asked, holding up the axe with a lazy smirk.

Max blinked. “You were serious about chopping wood?”

“Course I was.”

He groaned theatrically. “I’m an art student. I work with pastels, not pine.”

I tossed him a pair of gloves. “You’re about to work with oak.”

We walked to the stump. The wood pile beside it was tall—stacked with thick rounds I’d cut but not split. Max eyed them like they might bite.

I watched as he gripped the axe awkwardly—hands too close together, feet weirdly spaced, posture all wrong.

“No, no, no,” I said, stepping up behind him. “You're gonna hurt yourself.”

He stuck his tongue out over his shoulder. “You just wanna press up against me.”

Was he wrong?

I moved in behind him, big hands over his on the axe handle. Close. I could feel the heat coming off him, the curve of his ass brushing my jeans, the hem of that damn flannel swaying just above it. He smelled like sleep and sweat and leftover sex.

“Spread your feet,” I whispered in his ear. “Wider. Yeah.”

His breath hitched. I tightened my grip on his hands, guiding the motion.

“You want power, not speed. Swing from the shoulder. Use your hips.”

He gave the blade a half-hearted raise, wobbled it downward, and the axe barely sank a few inches into the log.

“That was pathetic,” I muttered, teasing.

“So show me,” he challenged.

I stepped back, letting him try again, but my jeans had already grown tight. And he noticed.

Max turned, eyes dropping. He saw the bulge in my jeans—no hiding it now.

“Well fuck,” he said, a slow grin curling his lips. “Guess more wood is stiffening up..”

I gave him a warning look. “Max…”

But he dropped the axe like it was irrelevant, turned to face me fully. His hands slid up under the open edge of my flannel, grazing the waistband of my jeans.

“Fuck me right here on that pile of wood, Daddy.”

The flannel hung open now, teasing just enough chest, just enough cock to show he wasn’t wearing a damn thing underneath.

I swallowed hard. “You’re gonna get splinters in your ass.”

He stepped back toward the log pile and bent over it, palms flat on a slab of oak, looking back at me with a look that could gut a man.

“I’ll take the risk.”

I was on him in seconds.

Max had his hands braced on the wood, back arched, ass pushed out like a goddamn invitation. His legs were bare, flannel open and fluttering in the breeze, and there was nothing between him and the rough grain of the logs but heat and want.

I stared for half a second longer than I should’ve.

Then I moved.

My boots hit the dirt heavy as I stepped up behind him, yanking my belt open one-handed, cock already hard and aching in my jeans. I spat in my palm, stroked myself once, twice, slicking it quick. No teasing. No soft talk. Just raw need.

“Still want it?” I asked, voice low, strained, dangerous.

Max looked over his shoulder, grinning like he was about to be eaten alive—and wanted it.

“Do your worst, Daddy.”

I grabbed his hips, lined up, and slammed into him.

He shouted, high and raw, as I bottomed out in one long, rough thrust. His body jolted forward, fingers gripping the wood hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck—yes—” he gasped. “More. Harder.”

He was already open from the night before, hole slick and ready, but still so tight around me I nearly saw stars.

I grabbed his shoulders, pulled him back into me, and started fucking him like I was splitting logs—steady, brutal, deep. The woodpile rocked with every thrust, the slap of skin echoing through the trees.

His moans weren’t polite—they were filthy. Desperate.

“This what you wanted?” I growled into his ear, teeth grazing his neck. “Bent over my stack, fucked stupid like a backwoods whore?”

He moaned loud, grinding back against every stroke. “Yes—fuck—yes.”

I grunted, slamming into him harder, sweat running down my spine. His ass bounced against my hips, raw and red from the slap of my body. I reached around, grabbed his cock—already hard, leaking, twitching with every thrust—and stroked him in time with the way I filled him.

“God, Max… you’re fucking tight,” I muttered, completely gone.

He twisted his head back toward me, breathless and red-faced.

“Then don’t stop till I can’t walk.”

I didn’t.

I grabbed a handful of that loose flannel and yanked him up, holding him against me as I slammed up into him from behind, deep and punishing, one hand around his throat, the other still stroking his cock.

“Come for me,” I growled.

He shattered—body locking, cock spurting over the woodpile, his whole frame trembling in my arms.

And that was it for me.

With a groan, I buried myself deep, hips jerking as I emptied inside him, pulse after pulse of heat flooding him full. My cock twitched, still locked in his body, both of us panting, spent, and soaked with sweat.

We collapsed against the pile, the smell of pine and sex hanging heavy in the air.

He was still laughing softly, voice hoarse. “Okay… maybe I like chopping wood.”

I pulled out slow, watching my cum drip from between his cheeks onto the logs below.

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered.

He grinned wider. “You love it.”

I couldn’t argue. I really couldn’t.