Jack Harrer and Peter Annaud kneel over Justin Saradon’s tight, flexing ass while Joel Birkin’s tongue traces his hole, then takes it deep. Their mouths seal around his throat as Harrer’s fingers dig into his hips, holding him still for the slow, relentless pull of a cock that fills him from behind. The air thickens with the wet slap of lips and the rough rasp of a beard against skin.
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