Tony Salerno’s hands grip Kory Houston’s hips as he presses his face into the tight, flexed asshole, tongue working deep while fingers curl inside. Houston kneels on all fours, his muscular back arched, the dark hair at his nape damp with Salerno’s breath as the close-up lingers on the stretched, glistening hole. Fingers probe and pull, lips seal around the puckered entrance, the rhythm sharp and relentless.
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