Sam Truitt’s beard bristles as he grips Jaxton Wheeler’s hips, his fingers probing deep into the hairy asshole while his mouth seals around it, the outdoor light catching the sweat glistening on his tattoos. Jaxton leans against a tree, his slim frame trembling as Truitt’s baseball bat rests nearby, unused but heavy with intent, while the woods swallow the sounds of their rough, unspoken hunger.
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