Josh Dors grips Hugh Hunter’s hips, his dark hair and tattoos framing the weight of his hands as he slams into him, chains rattling above, the air thick with the slick sound of skin and the faint metallic sheen of blood. Hunter’s bald head presses into the mattress, his muscular body bracing as Dors’s fingers dig into his ass, then slide inside, while his tongue traces the tight ring below. The force of each thrust leaves a mark, and the only thing sharper than the pain is the way Dors’s grip never loosens.
