Dillon Diaz pins Harlen Radcliff to the grass, his dark hair slicked back as he drives into him hard, the red shorts barely containing the weight of their struggle. The orange cones mark the field’s edge, but neither man cares, only the grip of his hands on Harlen’s shoulders, the way his body arches under the force. Wrestling turns to fucking as Dillon flips him over, his muscles straining against the earth, the rhythm rough and unyielding.
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