Pavel Modelon kneels behind Ruslan Tarovsky, his tongue tracing the tight ring of his asshole while Ruslan’s stocky frame arches into the pillow, fingers already probing deeper. The dark-haired one grips his own cock, thick and flushed, as Pavel’s lips seal around the puckered flesh, the wet sound of suction cutting through the air. Ruslan’s hands grip the sheets, his breath ragged, as Pavel’s beard scratches against his skin, then the pillow slips, and the stocky one flips onto his back, offering his hole, the air thick with the scent of sweat and salt.
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