Rod Stevans grips Julian Vincenzo’s hips from behind while he kneels over a green stool, his tattooed back flexing as he drives into him hard. Vincenzo’s fingers dig into the stool’s edge as Fredy Costa looms behind, his muscular arms wrapped tight around Stevans’ waist, rimming him with rough precision. The air thickens with the wet sounds of fucking and the sharp, deliberate thrusts that leave no doubt about who’s in charge.
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