Guilherme Lingua kneels in sharp sunlight, tongue deep in his own tight hole while his hands grip the concrete ledge, fingers digging in as he hums around the thick cock pressing inside. The camera catches him from every angle, backlit against a brick wall, sprawled on a rooftop railing, or pressed flush to a windowpane, each shot a different kind of desperation, his breath ragged, his grip tightening with every thrust. The city hums around him, but all he sees is the way his own reflection warps in the glass as he takes it harder.
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