Lance Seawell grips Walter Uwe’s hips as he kneels in the damp earth, his fingers probing deep while Uwe’s breath hitches against the rough bark behind him. The green shorts ride low, barely covering the thick cock that juts free as Lance’s tongue swirls over his slit, pulling a sharp gasp from Uwe’s parted lips. Their bodies twist in the underbrush, leaves crunching underfoot as fingers dig into muscle, the air thick with the scent of pine and sweat.
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