All About Erron

Paul Shippnek pins Erron Del down with his weight, his dark hair framing a face pressed into the grass as Shippnek’s hands grip his hips. Erron’s smooth, muscular back arches under the thrusts, his hole stretched wide as Shippnek drives deep, the deck chairs abandoned behind them. The air smells of sun and sweat, the only sound the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh.