Antonio Manero’s beard scrapes Arnaud Chagall’s throat as he grips his hips, fingers probing the tight hole while his mouth seals over the other’s neck. Chagall arches into the touch, his muscular back straining as Manero’s tongue laps at the sensitive skin before diving into his asshole. Hands dig into flesh, guiding the stretch, the only sound the wet, rhythmic thrust of a finger pushing deeper.
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