I met Marco at the gym—a 19-year-old Italian amateur bodybuilder with a face carved by Renaissance masters and a body that made statues weep. Dark eyes mirrored the hunger we both nursed.

We crashed at my place. He stripped first, a cascade of flesh—delts like boulders, lats sweeping to a narrow waist, pecs that could cradle a man’s soul. The sweat stained his tank top, mixing cheap cologne.

I dropped to my knees without a word. Palms ran up his thick thighs, each quad a diesel slab. His v-taper tapered into a prominent basket—that Italian slong demanding attention. My tongue traced the ridges of his abs, licking the salt from his slick skin. Each muscle gasped under my pressure.

He groaned low as my mouth engulfed his head. His cock, thick and veiny—a Roman column aimed toward Rome. My tongue swirled the slick purple tip—pre-cum smearing my lips. He grabbed my hair, steering while I worshipped. His body was pure power, quivering as my hands squeezed his steel glutes, pulling apart cheeks to expose a tight pucker.

“Put that tongue in... there, cazzo,” he grunted.

I buried my face between those carved cheeks—laved his hole, the musky perfume cracking my sanity. His hole ate my probing while he grinded backwards into my mouth. One spit-flicking minute, then I stood, drenched his cock in lube, and angled my hips.

Fucking him was a conquest of Hercules. His hole stretched so round my own member, he let out a guttural strangle of pleasure. My pelvis socked his bubble ass with every