August Alexander and James Jacobs stand between mechanic tools, their muscular frames flexing as they lean against tires, tattoos tracing their arms. One grips a wrench while the other bends over a bench, his ass raised for the taking, the shop’s grease marking his skin. The air hums with the weight of their bodies, one pressing down, the other taking it, the garage floor silent except for the wet sounds of their movements.
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