Freddy Costa and Antonio Russo grip each other’s slick, corded chests while Max Summers kneels behind, his tongue tracing the tight ring of Russo’s asshole before pulling back to tease it with slow, deliberate pressure. The strap bites into Russo’s hips as Costa drives into him hard, the muscles of his back flexing under the strain, while Summers’ fingers dig into the curve of his waist, holding him steady for the next thrust.
