Damien Horne’s dark hair and thick chest hair frame the chains wrapped tight around his wrists as Kalaban kneels between his thighs, fingers working his hole while his cock throbs free. The bearded man’s grip is rough on the cuffs, his own hand wrapped around his own shaft as he watches Kalaban’s tongue trace the head before plunging deep. The air hums with the wet sound of fingers stretching him open, the rhythmic jerk of skin against steel, and the sharp intake of breath when Kalaban finally lines up and drives in.
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