Bob Hager kneels in the dirt, his beard rough against Wilfried Knight’s chest as he takes him deep, fingers digging into the other’s thighs while the woods swallow the sound. Wilfried grips the back of his head, his own hands tangled in Bob’s dark hair as he guides the suction, the air thick with the scent of earth and sweat. One pulls back just enough to lick the salt from his lips before pressing back in, the outdoor light catching the sheen of their bodies as Bob’s fingers slide between Wilfried’s legs.
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