Blake Mitchell grips Ethan Helms’ hips, his dark hair framing a face behind glasses as the stocky man bends over a table, jeans pulled tight over his ass. The light-haired one raises his hand, palm flat, and delivers sharp, controlled smacks that leave red marks on Ethan’s smooth skin, his restraints keeping him steady. The air hums with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, each strike deliberate, the table’s edge biting into Ethan’s thighs as Blake’s grip never loosens.
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