Nick Clay kneels over Johnny B, his tattooed arms flexing as he grips the other man’s hips and drives into him with sharp, controlled thrusts. Johnny B lies sprawled on the bed, his short dark hair messy from the way Nick’s mouth has been working down his throat, then lower, his tongue pressing deep into his asshole before fingers follow. The military uniform draped over the backdrop only sharpens the contrast: the flag’s stars and stripes behind them as Nick’s grip tightens, his own cock slamming home with the precision of a drill sergeant’s order.
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