Marco Pirelli and Tate Ryder flex in the air, their shaved heads gleaming under the light as one pins the other’s wrists to the bed with tight straps. Tate Ryder’s muscular frame bends low, his tattooed chest pressed against Marco Pirelli’s as he takes him deep, fingers working the tight hole while the blond’s breath hitches. The rimming follows, rough and deliberate, before Pirelli flips him onto his back, strapped, exposed, and ready for the slow, relentless thrusts that fill the room.
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