Tristan Hunter grips Cazden’s hips while he kneels between his legs, the carved pumpkin forgotten as his tongue traces the tight ring of his asshole. Cazden arches into the pressure, his dark hair falling over his shoulders as Tristan’s fingers work him open before the first slow thrust drives deep. The couch looms behind them, silent witness to the way Tristan’s grip tightens on Cazden’s waist, pulling him back for every hard, unrelenting stroke.
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