Gavin Waters grips Kyle King’s hips with rope-tightened restraints while his tongue works deep into his throat, the blue wristbands marking his wrists as he chokes on the thrusts. King’s fingers dig into Gavin’s ass as he takes every inch, his breath ragged against the stretch of his hole, while ropes pull him forward for harder, wetter fucks. The game’s score isn’t just numbers, it’s the way Gavin’s teeth graze his lip when he comes, ropes cutting into their skin as they grind together.
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