Tommy Defendi’s bearded bulk pins Hans Berlin to the red locker-room bench, his grip crushing the other man’s shoulders while his mouth seizes his throat in a bruising kiss. Hans kneels between Tommy’s spread legs, his fingers probing deep as Tommy strokes himself with rough, relentless strokes, his cock already slick with precome. The air hums with the wet slap of lips on skin and the sharp inhale of rimming, their bodies slick with sweat and need.
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