Jim Ferro grips Aarin Asker’s cock, his own thick shaft already streaming as he bends low over a red surface, the yellow cap of his head tilted just enough to let the stream arc sharply toward the floor. Asker’s stocky frame stays steady, his hairy chest rising with each breath as Ferro guides the stream with rough precision, the close-up of the urinating cock sharp and unfiltered. The tattoos on Ferro’s bald scalp and Asker’s muscular arms are the only details that mark them apart, one holds, the other sprays.
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