Jesse Santana grips the green bottle hard, his dark hair slick with sweat as he leans over Tom Wolfe’s spread legs, fingers already working the tight hole while the bearded man’s cock throbs in his grip. Tom’s muscular chest rises fast, his clean-shaven jaw locked as Jesse’s tongue swirls over his slit before taking him deep, the bench creaking under their weight. The air smells of salt and oil, the sun beating down as one hand slides between them, fingers slick with precome.
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