Ronny Lamarr dominates Alan Mosca’s tight hole while the other two, one blond, smooth and muscular, the other slim with light hair, press close, their mouths on skin, fingers slipping between thighs. The yellow-shirted man kneels, his tongue tracing the curve of a chest before dipping lower, the bed creaking under shifting weight. Hands grip, teeth bite, and the air fills with the wet sounds of mouths working as one man holds still, another moves.
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