Francesco D’macho and the tattooed soldier pin the other down on the bench, his wrists bound tight with a strap as the clean-shaven man takes his turn with a rough, open-mouthed kiss. The dark-haired one kneels between his legs, fingers already working inside while the other’s tongue drags down his throat, then dips lower, rimming before pulling back just enough to tease. The bench creaks under their weight as one flips him onto his stomach, gripping his hips and driving in hard, the gym’s sterile light catching the sweat on their skin.
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